I love that my mother was always there, that we shared almost every minute of every day together, that she drove me to my school where she worked every morning, and I would sit in her classroom from 6:30 am until 8, playing Brickles on her Macintosh computer, knowing, breathing comfort when she was in the room. I love that I was her sidekick, whether it was obligatory or not, that she took me unquestionably on shopping errands: Sam's, Wal-Mart, TJ Maxx, Hancock Fabrics, you name it, or that I was her pool buddy at the YMCA every summer, even adopting her love for aerobics when I was adept enough to maneuver the stepper in class. I love that she cheered me on from the sidelines - in dance, track, piano, choir, ballet, gymnastics, volleyball, basketball, even guitar, that she thrived on my talents when other parents and friends were around, that she was available to drive me and my friends to our sporting events, that she offered to purchase not only my favorite treats, but my best friends' as well. One of my all-time favorite memories of John Carroll is opening up the trunk of my mom's car before she drove me and Laura to Tuscaloosa for the State track competition. My mom had asked Laura if she wanted a snack for the ride; she was heading to Sam's before picking us up. Laura mentioned she loved animal crackers. So my mom purchased a 5 pound bag of animal crackers for her, her way of showing me her abundance of love.
I remember Lessons and Carols practice my eighth-grade year. I was singing in a trio, and during the rehearsal two days before the actual performance, I started to cry. I was proceeding to my position in front of the choir with the other two girls, and it was my responsibility to move the microphone. I don't quite remember what happened, but I ended up fumbling with the stand, and a feeling of embarrassment and shame rushed over me. As the song started, I lost control of my emotions, and I began sobbing. I couldn't stop the tears, and all I remember is looking into the audience at my mom, seated at the end of the bench on the second row, mouthing to me that it was okay, as her eyes glistened compassionately with tears. I cried for four minutes, throughout the entire song, and not for one second did I take my eyes off of hers.
I hate that she didn't understand me, that as her child, I was too sensitive to handle her cynicism, her sarcastic behavior, that I took (and still take) everything she said too personally, because she was my mom, she was my world, and she didn't lighten up with her remarks, her jabbing comments. I hated that she wasn't perceptive enough to realize she was hurting me, that I didn't have the protective shell she did when I was her age, that it took me 13 years to grow that shell, to cope with the way she treated me.
I hate that I have to let go of the relationship I've always wanted with my mom. I've tortured you and my friends with endless fights that rip open old scar tissue. My friends keep asking me, "When are you going to learn? Can't you find another person to love you like your mother never will?" But I don't want to. I know she loves me, deeply, more than any mother can love their daughter, but the message is distorted, in a perverse, saddened way. I need to let go of the expectations that my mother is going to one day understand that for the past ten years, I've hidden many manifestations of my disorder from everyone. But the secrets are not going to solve our relationship. My wise friend wrote to me, "[Your mom] wants to know secrets like why you never felt good enough, or smart enough or loved or why/when you've acted like her and then maybe, just maybe she'll share with you her secrets - secrets of feeling like a failure as a Mother, as a teacher, a spouse, a daughter - no matter how many rewards - never, ever truly believing you're good enough." Please let this be true. I just don't know how to get better when I psychoanalyze every word that comes out of her mouth, that maybe I manipulate it so I can punish myself. Maybe I'm asking to be hurt by her so I can have something to be upset about, so I can hold onto my disease, so my eating disorder looks more appealing than my perception of reality.
I just want to ask her one question. Can you tell me what I did wrong?
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