The Mother, The User - Part 1
My mother, Lori, is a complicated woman. Over the years my feelings for her have been a seesaw of emotions; an ebb and flow of love and contempt; hate and affection. As I attempt here to capture those thoughts and feelings through the miasma of my childhood memories, I will not pretend to actually KNOW her, only to parlay information in a factual manner, as I recall it. Unfortunately, she is a very private woman, and I do not know much about her family or her childhood. She never shared, and she never invited sharing.
She was born during the Depression in a Podunk town in North Louisiana. I'm not sure what the family business was, but if I had to guess, I'd say her daddy was a logger. Her mother's family were farmers, a simple but proud lot, who owned a nice-sized chunk of the countryside. I don't know for sure, but I suspect that her father was an alcoholic. In fact, I often wonder if he may have been abusive as well but that is just speculation. It's just as possible that they were very close, and in a healthy, functional relationship. Either situation could have caused her to go hog-wild when he died.
She was fourteen when it happened. Before her fifteenth birthday she had a husband; by her sixteenth, she had a baby. They say country folks move-in for the kill quickly; it must be so.
'Old-Man' Haggard was twenty-five when he swept Lori off her feet. When I was young I had the freedom of thinking that he had taken advantage of her. In my contempt of him it was an easy thing to believe. As I've grown in reasoning, I've come to understand that my mother, even at the tender age of fourteen, was the very type of person that I despise most. The user.
I had not planned on stopping here, but suddenly I am in the wrong frame of mind to discuss this. I realize that I am feeling empathy for her. I know she was hurt as a child, but she chose not to stop the cycle. She chose to abandon me. She chose to beat me. She chose to look the other way and allow me to be molested repeatedly.
I gotta go...
-b
posted by Black Heart at 5:16 PM
3 Comments:
You make empathy sounds like a bad thing. Im' perfectly aware that my grandfather was an alcoholic, who was anything but nice to my dad. I know that my dad was cruel to me because of it. When I think about it, I feel really bad for my dad... but that doesn't excuse his behavior toward me. And, even though I've logically forgiven him... I cannot claim that my heart is healed... it isn't. I know that I act like him sometimes... but I do something he never did... apologize. I've never heard an apology from him in all my life, and he owes me a whole bunch of them. My mother used to tell me that he loves me in the only way he knows how... since he himself was shown parental love. That was minimally reassuring. At the time I didn't give a fuck what he'd been through, I just knew that he was a rotten father who made me cry and ddin't seem to care.
But empathy is a chracxter trait I think you should be proud of. Maybe you're just too mad right now to see that... and frankly, I don't blame you... ytou've been through more hell than I have. BUt I hope that you'll continue this post.
I'm sure your mom had her own issues... I'll bet that's why she drank. Im' sure she was a rotten mother worthy of your ill regard. Perhaps she was just so fucked up she had to remain blind, drunk, whatever. Some people just can't face reality. Sad.
I'm betting she wasn't very educated... meaning all she knew about life were her experiences... which probably didn't equip her for motherhood, or for escape.
I'm playing Devil's ADvocate here, I don't know a damned thing about your mother... all I'm saying is empathy is never a bad thing. Different from sympathy which can cause your outlook to become clouded and make you try to help the unhelpable... setting yourself up for greater disappointments and feelings of failure. Empathy just means you can open your mind enough to try to understand.
After all you've been through, you're fortunate to still have that gift. And it IS a gift, so don't squash it.
Rachael - I ditto everything you said. The only thing I'd add to that - in a supportive way - is from the book of Ecclesiastes Chapter 3. "There is an appointed time for everything. And there is a time for every event under heaven-- A time to give birth and a time to die; A time to plant and a time to uproot what is planted. A time to kill and a time to heal; A time to tear down and a time to build up. A time to weep and a time to laugh; A time to mourn and a time to dance. A time to throw stones and a time to gather stones; A time to embrace and a time to shun embracing. A time to search and a time to give up as lost; A time to keep and a time to throw away. A time to tear apart and a time to sew together; A time to be silent and a time to speak. A time to love and a time to hate; A time for war and a time for peace."
God Bless you both. Sue
I concur with both of you... Part 2 will include the following:
I love my mother, but not in the typical sense, more like one would love an aunt or extended family member. She has always been cold and distant. The first time I remember her telling me she loved me was after her brain aneurysm and the resulting surgery and extended hospital stay. That was 5 years ago. I make it a point everyday to tell each of my girls that I love them.
Empathy is a funny thing, especially in my situation. This is the appointed time for casting stones, so I need to shelf the empathy. Don’t worry, it’s nothing new. I have ridden this seesaw to the point that it has become next-of-kin; closer than a brother.
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