Random thoughts and memories

My mom and I didn’t click. In hindsight I see that I take after my Dad. That’s why it was easier for us to connect, to understand each other. My mom was sort of a mystery, I guess. I remember one of my earliest memories was that I thought she was a man. Well, she had short hair and a deep voice, and I thought only men had short hair, and that women had to have long hair. She came into the bathroom once when I was in the bath and I covered up because I thought maybe she was a man. I must have been really young, but recalling the house we lived in, I had to be no younger than seven, and you’d think I’d know better by that age. Ridiculous.

My Dad and I could sit down and talk a thing out. When my mom was mad at me, she would give me the silent treatment. She did it to Dad too. Especially after he drank the night before and embarrassed her at a party or something.

I was an artist but I didn’t know it yet. I would dress differently on purpose and she would say, “Oh, is that what all the kids are wearing now?” which would infuriate me because I wanted to specifically NOT wear what all the other kids were wearing.

In college, my Dad came to me and told me mom had been reading my journal and was distraught at how depressed I sounded. He asked me to write something upbeat so she wouldn’t worry so much. He didn’t ask me if I was really depressed. I think he knew instinctively that it wasn’t as serious as she thought. Maybe she was worried I would be like her, with depression. I was just so angry she would read my journal, I couldn’t see past my rage. I wrote that I would just die if anyone ever read my journal.

What daughter doesn’t long to connect with her mother? Deep deep down we want that connection. My mom and I were trying to make each other what we wanted. She wasn’t the cuddle-me, read-to-me, lavish-me-with-love type. Is that what I wanted? I don’t know, but it is now. Back then, whenever I had a problem with someone, she’d tend to side with them, afraid of prejudicing herself toward me, but she overcompensated in my opinion. I never felt safe talking to her. She wasn’t “on my side.” That pushed me away too.

In her effort to understand me, she turned me off. Typically, I thought she was "behind the times" and ridiculous. There were just questions all the time, never statements about what she thought of me or if she was proud.

How does a person even begin to write about their own mother? It’s almost like writing about oneself, it’s that close. Too close to see, perhaps. But I must write about my mother because my experience with her has been extraordinary. I am still processing it.