So, what do you do when your own mother doesn't love you?
I've asked myself that question over and over, but the only answer I can get from myself is "Keep breathing". It's such a long story, I dont' even know where to begin.
Mother told me years ago that by the time I was born, she knew her marriage to my father was already over. They'd been married eleven months and three weeks when I was born. Mother plodded along anyway, staying with him for 'the child's sake'. Well, Daddy was a drunk and a womanizer. That's not someone you really want to waste your time with, but she was a naive country girl who fell for the charm of a brilliant drunk. Anyway, she stayed with Daddy and we moved to another state to get away from both families, Mother thinking that if they could be away from the influence of the families, they might be able to work things out on their own. No such luck. Daddy's girlfriend (my future stepmother) moved to the same city and they kept on seeing each other. Mother finally got fed up and one day after Daddy left for work a big moving van showed up and we left. Daddy had no clue. When he got home, his house was empty - literally. Mother and I were safely settled in my maternal grandparents' home back in North Carolina.
Mother has insisted, all my life, that I'm just like my father. Now, Daddy had one hell of a brain. His IQ was well above genius, so I suppose I should be flattered, in a way. Still, he rarely kept a promise, conned people out of whatever he could get, lost money at drunken poker games, and just generally manipulated people and loved every minute of it. He adored playing with people's heads, using them, making them love him then smacking them around - and knowing that they still loved him anyway. That was a huge ego trip for him. He could tell a story like no one I've ever known. His eyes, his expression, his body movements - it all blended together to make you feel as if you were actually THERE. He was so gifted.
And he was sadistic.
One night, when I was 14 years old, he made me stand in the middle of the livingroom while he sat on the couch and berated me, calling me names and filling me in on just how worthless and stupid I was. He never had to lift a finger to hurt me. His words left tremendous rips in my soul, none of which have healed to this day. That night was the first time I ever self-injured. I smoked, as did most of my family on Daddy's side, and I just put out a cigarette on my arm to punish myself for being so stupid and worthless. That habit of punishing myself physically has continued to this day, and I'm 45 now.
I can't tell you how many times Daddy called me (after he and Mother divorced) and told me he'd be at my house on Sunday, then never show up. He'd say he would be there for my birthday, and never show up. So many times this happened, over so many years. Finally, when I was 16, I got fed up. I was in trouble at school, forced to see a counselor every week, and she said something that made me see him clearly for the first time. It was sort of an "a-ha!" moment. I realized how I'd fallen for his shit, how he'd used me for his own amusement. Suddenly I hated him - and I still loved him. I can't explain that, but it's true.
So, Mother tells me almost on a weekly basis just how like my father I really am, how irresponsible, how untrustworthy. And I can't deny it. I quit my job in May when I suddenly hit overload, I was crying, my stomach and colon were cramping, and I'd had enough. I cursed my supervisor, walked out, and didn't go back. That's terribly irresponsible and I know it. I allowed my depression and impulse control problems get the best of me and I ruined my childrens' lives by dumping our income. Now I'm about $25,000 in debt and falling deeper and deeper every week. And it's all my fault. Yeah, me and Daddy - two peas in a pod.
Back to Mother...
She once told me that she never really liked children. I believe it. She supported me financially, but couldn't stand to be around me as I was growing up. She told me I wasn't what she really wanted when I was born. She wanted a sweet, girly-girl who had curly hair just like hers, liked dresses just like her, and would be her best friend for life. That's what she told me she'd wanted. Instead, she got a part Native American girl with straight black hair, brown eyes like her daddy, a defiant, independant spirit, and at least half a brain. Oh, and her daddy's sense of humor (sarcastic). She wanted to trade me in, but was stuck with me. I think that broke her heart as much as finding out what a jerk Daddy was.
Time passes. She supports me, financially, but spends very little time with me. She leaves the parenting up to my maternal grandparents. They were wonderful people, the best a kid could ever ask for, but they weren't my Mom.
The clues began to creep out early on. I played piano by ear from the age of two, and Mother remarked more than once that she'd always wanted to play piano. I danced, not well, but adequately, and she remarked that she'd always wanted to learn to dance. I made friends extremely easily, and Mother talked about how painfully shy she'd been in her youth, and how lonely it was for her. I felt guilty for having friends, then. And I wasn't allowed to have friends over because it was a huge hassle for her. People always told her how pretty her little girl was, and Mother never felt pretty in her life. I took IQ tests in grade school, and they indicated that my IQ was roughly 30 points higher than hers.
Everything adds up now, but when I was growing up, I was just unloved, period. I never realized that I had what Mother wanted, I only knew that I was alone and lonely, and my mother didn't like me. I 'knew' there was something wrong with me, I was stupid or ugly or clumsy or something, but I wasn't what Mommy wanted - and I wanted to be what my Mommy wanted so she would just love me.
It never happened.
Eventually I realized that if I was ever going to have a chance at deflecting the pain my mother always threw at me, I'd have to lessen her importance in my life. I would have to learn to say "Whatever" when she went into one of her verbal stabbing sessions. I'm still trying, but it ain't easy. Mother knows when I'm vulnerable, and she takes every weak moment on my part as an opportunity to stab me in the heart. I don't know if she realizes it, or if it's all subconscious on her part, but she can be so very vicious. Then she has the nerve to wonder why I don't want to deal with her at all anymore.
I think the best time she's had recently was when she asked me whether she should leave everything she has, including the farm I grew up on, to my oldest son, or divide it up among the three of them. She thought she might leave the farm to my oldest son, and the rest of her money to the other two. But then she thought the other two boys might want some land, too, so she might divide everything up three ways. She wanted to know how I felt about it. I felt like I'd been shot. I'd always dreamed of living on that farm in my old age, the farm I loved, the place I spent so many summer days exploring, catching crayfish in the creek, salamanders at one of the three springs, and hunting for arrowheads. She knew I loved that farm. And she knew that she was tearing my soul out by cutting me out of her will and leaving the farm to my children.
I smiled and told her I really thought that a trust fund would be a great idea for the money, but the land thing was up to her, I really didn't know what parts each boy might want for himself, that she might ask them to be sure. I smiled as my soul bled on her nice clean carpet. Just to make sure she believed that her vicious words hadn't had any effect, I acted enthusiastic about the trust fund idea, offering to do some research for her, if she'd like. She declined. She seemed disappointed. I took that as a small victory and left, still smiling.
How can I possibly want to keep living now??
I take pain killers, drink on occasion, and keep breathing. Just keep breathing.
I want to go away, far away, and cry. I want to watch my blood drain out of my body, slowly, and leave Mother a happy little note thanking her for being such a wonderful, loving mother, and that I was doing this just for her. But I know she'd be delighted and it would be just what she wanted.
I'm like my father. I imagine how I would smile and visit mother in the old folks home once a year, ignoring her the rest of the time. I imagine how I'd give her what she gave me.
The reality is that I can't let that happen because I love my mother. I'm such a sap.
Sometimes I fantasize that I'm shot to death in a robbery or something. Anything that would make me dead without it being my fault.
I really do deserve to be punished - that's why I still self-injure - but death is too good for me. I'll stay here and take my punishment.
And I still wish I had a mother who loved me....
