Many of my readers know of my tumultuous relationship with my estranged, alcoholic mother. To recap our last encounter, I reached out after several quiet (and drama free years) to offer my sympathy when I found out her last living brother had cancer. That didn’t end very well and we left things worse than they were, basically ending all contact forever.
I found out that he passed away yesterday. The last phone call from her was August 19th and I remember it like it was yesterday. And it still hurts like it was yesterday. But I’ve received so much support and love from my family and friends– I am no longer hurting or bitter about it. It is what it is and I know it’s not me…it’s her disease. And I vowed I would never speak to her again, per her voicemail on that day, but my heart is hurting for her right now. I’ve sent along my condolences verbally with my sister, but do you think it’s ok to send a card? Nothing more – no phone call (NEVER!) and no flowers, but just a signed sympathy card from me to let her know that even though we may never speak again, that I’m still sorry for her loss…which I am. I hate that for anyone…even her. Or should I just leave it alone? The last time I opened that door, it turned out horribly. And I’m not opening that door – I’m just sending a card. But I didn’t think I was opening the door last time by offering my sympathy, but apparently I was (my mistake was calling). I’m so confused. Your advice and thoughts would be so appreciated.
Yes, I know that’s going to make a lot of people angry. So be it. You’ll get over it. Don’t get me wrong – I LOVE most mothers. I have had strong, amazing mother figures throughout my life showing me how it *should* be done and I am grateful they took me under their wings. Virgie, Brenda, Sandra, even Carolyn and Barbara – all had a part in molding me and helping me in those formative years. And I love them so much for the mothering they gave me, especially Virgie. Virgie was definitely my surrogate growing up – and still is. She took me everywhere with her family – weekly skating jaunts, tons of trips to the beaches and to state parks in the camper, anywhere the Todds went, I was welcome and invited. She also watched over me with an eagle eye and when Jennifer got in trouble for something we were both doing, so did I. I cried in her arms more times than I can count and ate more of her chocolate chip pancakes than I care to admit.
I am truly happy for all my friends out there who are mothers and who are doing it right. Yes, I know there’s “no right or wrong” when it comes to parenting since everyone is learning, but come on…there IS a wrong way. I’m glad for all you lovely ladies who are raising children to respect their elders, work hard for what they get, and live honestly. I am thankful for my friends who realize that motherhood isn’t for them for one reason or another and are abstaining from it. I’m happy there are fur baby mamas, like myself, who are focusing their attention on raising critters, rather than humans, because that’s what they can handle or want to do. I’ve often wondered if I didn’t have children because I was afraid I would hurt them like she did me.
I try to put on a brave face and smile with the rest of the world and enjoy the endless stream of mommy pictures on my Facebook feed, whether the mothers are still here or not, but I really just want to throw my device out the window. This should be a happy day for me, for my mother, for so many others. But for friends who mothers have dearly departed, it brings a myriad of emotions that leaves them feeling lonely and numb for a day. For others, like me, whose mothers are still here but not really, I want to just blare some really mean chick music and curse like a sailor. It’s been so long and I have tried so hard, but I’m still angry. There is no closure. I have never said to her all the ways she hurt me, how much I’ve cried and been sad, and how awful I think she is. I gave her a choice – alcohol or me. She made her decision. I know it’s a disease and I know that alcoholics don’t necessarily have a choice, but she’s tried to get better and goes back every time. Fine, have it your way. Drink yourself to death and do whatever you want. Don’t write me asking me for a truce – we’re not fighting. We’re not anything. Because you can’t stop drinking. So thank you. Thank you for giving me life. I really DO appreciate that and am so thankful you did. I love you for that. But that’s where it ends. Until you get help and until you stop drinking, Mother’s Day will be an annual reminder of how you hurt me, how you abandoned me, and how you chose liquor over your family. I hope you enjoyed it. I hope it brought you flowers.
It seems the world is all abuzz with the new song from Adele and her upcoming album. I heard “Hello” yesterday for the first time. The timing of the song couldn’t have been worse for me (or better, depending on how you look at it). I’m not shy about my private life and pretty transparent. I recently alluded to some “mother issues” that I’m starting to tackle with my new therapist and this song was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
A little background: My mother and I have always has a strained relationship, mostly due to her alcoholism. It was a bitter pill to swallow growing up, always coming in 2nd, 3rd, or not at all, and I finally got some reprieve when she sent me to live with my dad when I was seven years old. But I still saw her every year during summer and the disease always reared its ugly head in some way during my visit, usually multiple times. A few years ago I couldn’t take the mental abuse anymore and the toll it was taking on my life here in Alabama – even from Wisconsin – and had to end my relationship with her. I sent her a letter wishing her love and the care that she needed and a good life, but that I could no longer be a part of it as long as she was drinking. World’s Worst Daughter, step right up! The few friends I spoke to about it tried to reassure me that self-care is important too, as well as my sanity, but I still felt like crap.
Fast forward a few years to now: Therapist wants to start talking about her. Crap, fine. Whatever. I don’t want to, but you know what’s best. A week ago Friday…”talk to her, Sherri. What do you want to say to your mom?” That was followed by a pretty short tirade from me about abandonment, alcoholism, my sister (who had to live with her and deserved so much more), harsh memories and examples, wishing her well and that was it. The therapist was wonderfully empathetic after and understanding that I gave what I had and was indifferent now. Or so I thought.
The following day my sister messaged me that mom wanted my mailing address. What? Who? NOW? What are the odds? WHY DOES SHE WANT THAT? I DON’T WANT TO OPEN PANDORA’S BOX AGAIN. Four days later I received a note from my mother, who hasn’t spoken to me in years (I did try once), with one word on it: “Truce?”
What is she trying to do to me? We’re done with that. We aren’t fighting, so why do we need to call a truce? That letter threw me into a mental whirlwind and I didn’t know how (or how I WANTED) to process it. Therapy appointment made? Check! That was Thursday. Friday I heard “Hello” for the first time. At my desk. At work. BIG mistake. That song, while I’m sure about a romantic relationship, hit me like nothing I’ve ever heard before and sent me into an emotional tailspin. Every feeling about my mother that’s been welling up in the past week, and likely the past 3 years, came rushing to the surface as I heard Adele ask to meet, realizing they are running out of time, and talking about how sorry she was for breaking their heart. I sobbed in the bathroom at work, clutching my mom’s letter, and trying to make sense of what was going on in my head and heart. After a few minutes I composed myself and got back to work. But that song has haunted me ever since.
Those words could have written for me. By my mother. More importantly, to me, those words should have been written to me. By my mother. Did I just want acknowledgement and a heart felt apology? Is that what I have been longing for after all these years? I’m not sure, time will tell. In the mean time, here are the lyrics. I am hoping one day I might hear them from my mother.
“Hello”
Hello, it’s me
I was wondering if after all these years
You’d like to meet, to go over everything
They say that time’s supposed to heal ya
But I ain’t done much healing
Hello, can you hear me?
I’m in California dreaming about who we used to be
When we were younger and free
I’ve forgotten how it felt before the world fell at our feet
There’s such a difference between us
And a million miles
Hello from the other side
I must’ve called a thousand times to tell you
I’m sorry, for everything that I’ve done
But when I call you never seem to be home
Hello from the outside
At least I can say that I’ve tried to tell you
I’m sorry, for breaking your heart
But it don’t matter, it clearly doesn’t tear you apart anymore
Hello, how are you?
It’s so typical of me to talk about myself
I’m sorry, I hope that you’re well
Did you ever make it out of that town
Where nothing ever happened?
It’s no secret
That the both of us are running out of time
So, hello from the other side
I must’ve called a thousand times to tell you
I’m sorry, for everything that I’ve done
But when I call you never seem to be home
Hello from the outside
At least I can say that I’ve tried to tell you
I’m sorry, for breaking your heart
But it don’t matter, it clearly doesn’t tear you apart anymore
Hello from the other side
I must’ve called a thousand times to tell you
I’m sorry, for everything that I’ve done
But when I call you never seem to be home
Hello from the outside
At least I can say that I’ve tried to tell you
I’m sorry, for breaking your heart
But it don’t matter, it clearly doesn’t tear you apart anymore
Tonight I joined two lovely friends to see the Unchained Tour at DISCO as it passed through Birmingham. It is a night of music, story telling, and community that fills local bookstores and shops as it makes its way around. They are self-proclaimed raconteurs and the description fits them perfectly, right down to the Partridge family style bus (but a lot more original and beautiful) that they travel in. The evening was perfect..right up until I started crying uncontrollably. One of the women told a story about her fondest memory of living with her alcoholic mother. Those of you who know me know that I’m in the same boat. Those of you that don’t, well there you go. Thankfully I didn’t grow up with my mother for most of my life and was able to escape a lot of the madness, heartache, and pain that my sister had to deal with. However, I definitely had my moments with her – sometimes a year’s (or five) worth of slurring, falling, and yelling all rolled into my annual visit to her. Most of the time it wasn’t that bad when I visited, but I eventually grew to hate the alcohol and her. As the raconteur told her story tonight it took everything I had not to leave. I was on the verge of tears, I was angry for thinking about my mom and letting that affect my evening negatively. I had been having such a lovely time. But it was done. I couldn’t control it and I let it wash over me. After they wrapped up the show, I went up to talk to her and thank her for telling her story. I’m sure I’m one of a million people who have come up to her to say “I’ve been there” and “Thank you for telling my story for me,” but she was gracious enough to make me feel like I was the only one. As she hugged me, she saw tears welling in my eyes and hugged me harder at which I point I just let go. Right there in front of an entire, well-lit room of perfect strangers and some friends. She hugged me again and confessed she had gotten all her crying out that afternoon while thinking of telling her story.
During intermission, they invited audience members to submit their names to tell a 1 minute story of their own. The theme for tonight’s local storytellers was “family.” I quickly jumped at the idea of trying my hand at telling a personal story in front of everyone until I realized that the stories I were likely to tell were angry ones about my mother. I didn’t need (or want) to tell a roomful of strangers that. So I guess instead I’m telling you. I would say I have a million of them, but the truth is that I haven’t seen her a million times. I moved to live with father when I was 7 and saw her once a year after that. The past few years she has gotten progressively worse and I don’t care to even be around her. I know I’m a horrible daughter for saying that or feeling that way, but it is what it is. I tried to love her and I did (and I do) but I’m exhausted. And, honestly, I have gotten very little from her. I’ve fought it for years, I’ve gone to therapy, I’ve screamed, I’ve cried – I’m still crying – but I do not want that “drama” in my life anymore. I have to do what’s best for me. And, although she’s my mother, she never was much of one to me (I’m sorry if that offends any of you) so I’m not much of a daughter anymore. I’m glad she had me, but that’s where my gratitude ends with her.
There’s my story. Maybe one day it will change (again) and I’ll feel differently. Maybe one day I’ll want to try – yet again – to have a relationship. But every time so far it has crumbled. I know it’s not just her – love is a two-way street and all the emotion that comes with it. But I truly feel like I tried a hundred times and was let down or hurt every time. I’m done.
The show tonight was happy, touching, sad, funny, angry, loving, moving, and a million things in between. I will admit that I left feeling angry and sad, but I left FEELING. And I think that’s all the storytellers wanted. Thank you, Annie.
Love yourself.
Find peace inside.
Share happiness.
Yes, I know that’s going to make a lot of people angry. So be it. You’ll get over it. Don’t get me wrong – I LOVE most mothers. I have had strong, amazing mother figures throughout my life showing me how it *should* be done and I am grateful they took me under their wings. Virgie, Brenda, Sandra, even Carolyn and Barbara – all had a part in molding me and helping me in those formative years. And I love them so much for the mothering they gave me, especially Virgie. Virgie was definitely my surrogate growing up – and still is. She took me everywhere with her family – weekly skating jaunts, tons of trips to the beaches and to state parks in the camper, anywhere the Todds went, I was welcome and invited. She also watched over me with an eagle eye and when Jennifer got in trouble for something we were both doing, so did I. I cried in her arms more times than I can count and ate more of her chocolate chip pancakes than I care to admit.
