While written as a short story format, it is actually very autobiographical--to say the least I had a very turbulent relationship with my mother
I look up from what I’ve been so intensely doing for the last two hours, and stare at the dancing, flickering flames of the two lit orange-colored candles set before me, and watch the smoke spiraling upward from the stick of Jasmine incense. I’ve been writing. I do that a lot lately, usually in the wee small hours of the morning, when I know I won’t have any distractions. Writing has become one of my escapes to block out my mother’s dismal existence for awhile.
I turn my head for a moment, glancing over my shoulder into the living room where I see my mother sitting on the sofa. She’s sound asleep. Yes, it’s late, most people are asleep at 4:15 a.m., but with my mother it’s different. She sleeps a lot, all the time, day and night. That’s how she’s been spending her life lately, just sitting on the sofa sleeping. She hasn’t had motivation to do anything in a long, long time, not that she ever had much to begin with, but now it’s worse, so much worse. It’s been like living with a comatose corpse.
For years I’ve been trying to get my mother enthused in doing something...anything, to make her a part of the world of the living again. She used to do such beautiful sketches and oil paintings, yet now she never bothers to pick up a pencil or a piece of paper to do the most simplest of mindless doodles. You know...those silly, nonsensical drawings one often does, particularly while talking on the phone. She doesn’t even do that. She doesn’t do anything...period. She ignores whatever I say to her. She’s not listening. Not anymore. She’s tuned out, living in la-la land.
I pity her. Really. I do. I feel so sorry for her at times, that is when I’m not hating her so much, which frankly is all the time now. I never thought I could have such hatred or animosity toward a person the way I’ve been feeling toward my mother, but I do. Doesn’t she realize how she’s been wasting her life away all these years? Can’t she conceive how precious life is? That it’s a gift? She should be grateful, that at her age, when she opens her eyes and wakes up from a deep slumber, that she has another opportunity in living one more day, of being alive, no matter how seemingly difficult life may be.
It’s only been these past few years, that my mother has been so depressingly dismal, yet she doesn’t seem to realize that she herself has chosen to live her life this way. Yes, she has chosen it, no one else. She has no one else to blame for the way things have turned out, and of her present hardships she’s been enduring. She refuses to acknowledge, that she’s been the author of her own misery. She wants instead to blame everyone else in the world for her problems and for the way she is now, and of course, she particularly wants to point the finger at me for her strife in life. What a laugh! As is one day I had told her to stop living, of truly being alive, and to transform herself into this miserable, wretched, resentful, bitter old hag that she’s become.
The frightening par of it all, is that she doesn’t even think that there’s anything wrong with her. A few times I’ve asked her, point blank, “Don’t you sense that there’s something wrong with you?” All I get is that all too familiar blank, stony-faced expression of non-comprehension of hers. There actually have been times when I’ve questioned my own sanity, thinking perhaps that maybe I’m the crazy one, and she’s normal. But how can it be normal to just sit on one’s ass all the time and not do anything, to not be interested in picking up a book to read or watch TV; most of all, how can it be normal not to have any dreams or goals to aspire to?
Then one day, not too long ago, a rather eerie thought struck me. My mother’s behavior has been so non-reactive to anything, that in some ways I’ve gotten used to it, but then it occurred to me...there was something else missing in my mother, so I asked her, “Mom, I can’t remember the last time I heard you laugh. Do you ever laugh anymore?” This time, instead of the blank stare I usually got, she made a reply, and it was a dousey, “Yes, when I’m away from you.” Wham! Guilt trip alert!
I’ve either very naïve, or very stupid all these years, despite my so-called high intelligence. It’s like I’ve finally woke up to realize how good my mother’s been in laying the guilt trip scenes with me all my life. I’ve also recognized what a manipulative, push-your-buttons bitch she’s been, and a supreme expert in dumping off her responsibilities onto, not only me, but to everyone she has ever known. And, oh, what a God-damned liar as well, all to make herself come across as this sweet, innocent, poor me victim. Doesn’t she know that sooner or later, lies are eventually revealed, found out? The sad fact is, I don’t think she’s capable of telling the truth anymore, and who knows, perhaps never has.
It almost ironic, but when Anna lived down the block, we weren’t particularly chummy, but now that she’s moved to California, we’ve gotten quite close. Figures. We’ve been writing virtual novellas to each other, and sometimes have marathon yaks on the phone. Well...my God! Anna’s been telling me all the crap my mother’s been dishing out to people over the years. What a pack of lies she’s been telling. It seems my mother has been busy claiming how terribly hard it’s been throughout her life; that it’s been no bed of roses. What the hell is this woman talking about? From what she would tell me about herself, my mother grew up like a spoiled rotten, pampered princess, having a maid and a housekeeper, and a rich aunt and uncle who gave her whatever she wanted.
The worse however, are the lies she’s been telling about me. Apparently, she’s never told anyone of my successes as a photographer, or of my getting my photos published, that I’ve won a few contests, or that one of my published photos on the cover of a magazine, was cited as best cover of the year. Oh, no! She’s never told anyone, any of this, but instead has been making me out to be this blithering idiot who hasn’t done a damn thing in life. She’s been so busy telling people how I’m always yelling and screaming at her, and calling her names, which, yes, I do admit to doing, yet the way she’s told it, has made me sound like I’m a candidate for the daughter from hell award.
I sigh slightly while closing the notebook I’ve been writing in, then reach over blowing out the candles. Before going to the bathroom to start filling a much needed, relaxing hot bath, I head for the kitchen for a snack.
Opening the fridge, I notice the stack of Russler-brand deli meats, two one-pound packages of Hotel Bar Butter, a container of cottage cheese, two bricks of Swiss cheese, and a pound of Boar’s Head smoked bacon. My mother’s “spoils” for the day. Now I know why she always carries that over-sized black tote bag of hers. How she hasn’t been caught, I’ll never know, but I’m almost expecting to receive a phone call from the 110th Precinct that they are holding my mother there. Oh, yes, my mother a thief as well. I once asked her if she felt guilty about stealing...again, all I got was that blank stare while she shook her head no.
I cut a chunk of the cheese, nibbling on it while heading toward the bathroom. I glance over to my mother. I feel the anger rise within me. Oh, how I hate the woman. I feel guilty about that, she is after all my mother, and isn’t one supposed to love one’s mother no matter what? Yet, she’s no longer my mother now. She looks like my mother, sounds like my mother, but that woman sitting on the sofa is not the same woman I used to know. How sad. How pathetically sad. Am I going to miss her when she dies? How can I? She died a long time ago.
Join me as we travel together on the road called "Aging." I will be sharing my personal experiences with you and offer ideas on how we can better navigate the complex byways of our older years. Grief, healing, generations, ancestors, and more.
Sherlyn Powell opens up about her love and devotion to her family and the overwhelming repercussion when communication breaks down. Heartbroken and distraught she learns to release her prayer and realize with faith God would reunite her family.
