In my third post about finding common ground within difficult relationships, I want to talk a bit more about why at this point, I’ll take whatever I can get. In the last post, I mused about it, but wasn’t really explicit about the reasons for my conclusion.
Let’s start with a little backstory. Yes, I’ve talke about this before, but I feel like talking about it again.
I had really severe depression as a kid. By the time I was seven, Iwanted to die. I thought the world would be better off without me, and while I didn’t have the guts to do anything about it, I didn’t go out of my way to avoid death, either.
The other thing I did was pray every night to a god I didn’t believe in that I would wake up a boy. Not beacuse I felt like a boy or thought I was one, but because being a girl in my culture was such a miserable, shitty thing. Don’t laugh too loud; don’t climb trees; don’t sit with your legs uncrossed; don’t run around with the boys. Don’t do anything masculine, but, in a weird twist, be good at sports. But don’t be better than boys at any given sport.
Be smart and go to college, but don’t be smarter than a boy. Don’t know more than boys, and don’t ever even imply that you are in any way bigger, better, brighter, or any thing more than any rando boy. Was it any wonder that I thought it would be better to be a boy?
It was so confusing because my mother loved sports and was good at them, and she made me play them, but I wasn’t supposed to really like them, apparently. I was also supposed to go to college (in fact, that was mandated), but the ultimate goal was to get a husband.
In my twenties and thirties, in short order, my mother hated the following things about me: my college boyfriend; me being bi; me deciding not to have children; me getting a tattoo (and then three more); me leaving Christianity; and, me studying Taiji. Oh, and me being fat, but that’s not a decision I made–rather, just me being very fat.
At some point in my mid-thirties, I realized that it was better for me not to mention anything important to my mother because she would hate it/disparage it/feel threatened by it/belittle it.
When my parents were here after my medical crisis, I foolishly decided to show my mother the Sword Form. Only the first few movements, but that was enough for her to look at me as if she had eaten a lemon as she said with the little laugh she gives when she’s about to say something particularly unappetizing, “Oh, how cute.”
Cute??!! Just, no. I realize that she didn’t know what to say and that she probably didn’t like it at all, but that was one of the worst things she could have said in that situation. Even just saying, “How nice” would have have been better than that. Or “That’s not for me”. Or any other kind of platitude that didn’t involve the word ‘cute’.
Sometime in my forties, I laid down that burden. What burden? The burden of trying to win my mother’s love. I mean, I gave up on it before that, but there was still a corner of my heart that hoped against hope that one day, I would have a mother who could see me as me and if not love me for that, at least tolerate it.
I had to readjust my thinking. This has only been in the last four years or so, and only once my mother made it crystal clear what her priorities were. It’s funny because she’ll say that my brother and I are first in her heart, but it’s very much evident that this is not the case.
Actually, she would say that God was first; my brother and I were second; and my father was third. When in actuality, it’s my father, then God, then my brother and me in third.
I made my peace with it. And when I was able to truly put that burden down, it was a weight off my shoulder. It does flare up now and again, but it’s very subdued.
This is my long way of explaining why something as small as finding the Taiwanese song I like is meaningful in my relationship with my mother. We have so little in common, so anything we can latch onto is a positive. Also, I’m not looking for anything big. Any time I find myself getting impatient with my mother, I just take a deep internal breath and try to let it go.
I had to come to grips with the fact that she is who she is. She was not going to change, in a large part because she was resistant to even admitting her flaws. The flaws that she will admit to having, she hasn’t done anything to address them.
Because of this, she will never see me as who I really am. I’m not sure I would really want her to because she hates every part of me she already knows. She ignores them as best as she can, pretending that they don’t exist. When I told her about my first tattoo, she told me not to tell my father.
She didn’t even have to mention that when I told her I was bi. I already knew that he would freak out about it even more than my mother had. Which, by the way, I’m not sure is actually true. My mother was excellent at triangulating between my father and me. I have no doubt that my father would have issues with some of the stuff, but all of it?
I’m not sure. Because I don’t know my facther at all. Or rather, nothing more than a few superficial things. And things I was able to gather about him by observing him. I do know that my mother did not make things better by constantly stepping between us. I don’t think we had a chance at having a relationship for many reasons, but my mother made certain that didn’t happen.
Did she do it purposefully? No. Does that matter in the end? No. The impact was the same either way–I did not have any knid of relationship with my father as I was growing up.
I want to emphasize that my father was not interested in a relationship with me or my brother, regardless. It’s not like my mother single-handedly kept us apart. I’m just saying that she salted the wounds with her actions.
As I’ve mentioned several times, my parents are on their last journey. I will take any moment of connection I can during this time, no matter how superficial or fleeting.