The thing about my Mom…

San Antonio - Riverwalk

This post has been sitting in my draft folder, mostly complete, for years. Writing about my relationship with my Mom is tremendously difficult for me; I feel like I need to justify myself, defend myself, and to do that I feel like I need to give ALL the information, to prove my position a thousand different ways because then you’ll understand this isn’t a phase, or my misinterpreting a conversation, that I’m a good person with a crap history. But the truth is, I cannot provide twenty years of background in a blog post. I cannot stop a reader from assuming I’m just ungrateful and emotionally stunted and an unforgiving bitch. And I cannot continue to fight for the right to have my own history and feelings and emotions matter. They matter. My experience is my own. 

Many years ago I read and loved The Glass Castle, a searing memoir from Jeannette Walls of depravity, neglect, and one woman beating impossible odds. I remember loving the tenacity and sheer will power that brought Walls from an incredibly poor, dirty, trodden-down mining town in West Virginia to a town car on Park Avenue in New York City. Walls father was a raging alcoholic, her mother probably bi-polar, and the Walls kids were left to fend for themselves, fighting hunger, incredibly poverty, lack of shoes, clothes, blankets, no running water, electricity, trash removal services, or any sort of plumbing. They were left to fight child molesters and violent bullies on their own, their parents telling them (if they even noticed) that it would be good for them to stand up for themselves. The Glass Castle is not a happy book, it is heartbreaking.

Several years later (when I was in a much different relationship with my mother) I re-read it for book club and Walls’ experience hit me over the head and heart in ways it never had before. For the last 20 years or so I have had a tenuous-at-best relationship with my own mother, but for the last 7 I have hardly spoken to her at all. Before I moved to Arizona, she lived less than 45 miles from me yet I would only see her at family functions hosted by one of my siblings, never at her home, and I do not speak to her on the phone, or by email, or holiday cards, or text messages, or carrier pigeons. I don’t even think she has my current address. (To be fair, she never reached out to me either, and my phone number and email address have been the same for almost 15 years.) After reading The Glass Castle it became pretty clear to me that on some level my Mom suffers from some messed up brain chemistry. I don’t know if she is bi-polar, but she has a lot of symptoms that would lead me to believe she might be somewhere on the spectrum of social personality disorder. Conversations with my Dad, sociologist sister, and two or three of my aunts have confirmed this could very well be the case.

I did not grow up in a happy place, before I left home I experienced parental physical and mental abuse to a pretty significant degree, and was sexually molested by a family member and his teenage friends for several years while I was young (ages five-ish until I was probably nine). I don’t really have many memories of being at home while I was growing up. I remember some big events–birthdays, Christmas, cousins coming to stay for a few days–and I remember a lot of things about being at school, or church, staying at my grandparents house, or playing outside with the neighbor kids…but I have very few memories of being inside my home, most of the memories I do have are very dark: being hit with a yard stick; being hit with a dried cutting from a rose bush, thorns still intact; being dragged out of my hiding place in the closet and my stomach stomped on until I could feel her foot wiggling on my spine; being repeatedly touched and teased by a very messed up teenage boy in front of his friends….and then being touched and poked and prodded some more by those friends; being trapped in the closet under the stairs with the neighbor boy and my clothes pulled and bunched so he could see me while he touched himself, I vividly remember what he smelled like, what the musty cardboard boxes smelled like. None of those are isolated instances, most happened over and over, and there are countless other similarly disturbing experiences. I have always had nightmares–never ending nightmares–about monsters and boogey men coming into my room at night and hurting me while those I loved (and who I thought loved me) stood by and watched passively, never lifting a finger to help me.

Most of those memories–the worst ones, for sure–were buried for years. As a teenager I half-suspected something really terrible had happened to me when I was a kid, but I wouldn’t have been able to definitively tell you what it was. In November of my senior year of high school I was sitting in an AP Psychology class learning about neuro defense mechanisms, one of which is repressing memories that are too painful to deal with, or for which the brain does not have the skill or energy to process. And as I sat there in my 2nd period class, all these sort-of grainy old snapshot memories suddenly turned into a horror film that just would not stop rolling. I remembered everything. I remembered who, and where, and when, and for how long. I left class sobbing, my best friend following right behind me. She caught up to me in the hall and choking through my sobs I told her what I thought happened. We left school immediately and spent the rest of the day talking. Later that night when I went home I told my Mom what had happened and asked her if what I was remembering was true.

….she said she knew what was happening. She knew, at the time, what was happening. And she left me with this boy anyway. For years. I didn’t know what to say (I still don’t), my Mom started crying and the only thing she said was “You never said anything, so I guess I thought it didn’t bother you.”

….

I can’t…I don’t…I still don’t have a response to that.

The next few weeks were impossible, I hardly got out of bed, I lost a lot of weight, my grades plummeted. When I did go to school I started blacking out and was taken to the office to lie down and I’d sleep there the rest of the day. This was November, by early January my Mom kicked me out. Technically the reason was because I came home late three nights in a row (12:05 when my curfew was midnight; yes, I’m serious). I remember my Mom screaming at me that I was just impossible to live with, to get out. So, at age 17, halfway through my senior year of high school, I left home and have never gone back.

Sixteen years and hundreds of therapy sessions later I consider myself a mostly well-adjusted adult. I have dealt with the abuses of my childhood and have moved on. Sure, they still pop up every now and then, and must be acknowledged, given a cursory examination, and then repacked before putting them back on the shelf, but for the most part those terrible memories are not part of my daily life.

Last year I had a huge breakthrough, I finally got to tell my mother, to her face (and with no small quantity of swears and screams) what I thought of her, what I remembered, and how she had failed me, how as an adult she should have known better. It was….it was really, really hard. And also exhilarating to finally be free of all those words. I wrote about it here, thinking that perhaps this would be the first step towards some kind of reconciliation. There has been no reconciliation. I do not care enough to put in any time or effort to regenerate a dead relationship with my mother, and she has not reached out either. I don’t know if that is old habits dying hard, or if she truly does not want or need a relationship with me. I am certain, however, that I do not need or want a relationship with her. And I’m okay with that. I am at peace with that. I kept thinking that after a huge blow up with all the chips down and feelings out in the open I’d finally want to explore having a mother in my life.

Turns out, nope, I don’t.

And she doesn’t either.

And that no longer hurts. I am sitting here staring out my window, trying to get myself to feel something about this: Harriet, your Mom doesn’t care about you. She doesn’t love you. She was horrible for years and despite all the manipulations and emotional blackmail, she still doesn’t want you in her life. You are unwanted and unloved.

Nothing. I feel nothing.

That’s not entirely true. Sometimes I do feel sorry for her, I am fully aware that she has something messed up in her brain that is, most likely, at the root of her actions and behavior. Part of me knows she cannot control that, but part of me also knows that there are things she can do to be a better mother, sister, and friend. Medication, therapy, something. She chooses to pretend that a) everything is fine, and b) the things that are not fine are not her fault, because she’s the victim in all scenarios and has zero responsibility for their outcome. She is not willing to see, or she is incapable of seeing, and that is not something I need to take on and fix.

I feel nothing. I have felt nothing for years. I feel even less nothing now than I did a year ago. I am not heartless. But when it comes to my relationship with my Mom, I feel…nothing.

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Living with a pet volcano named Anxiety

Do you want to know what is the worst part of anxiety? It’s not the crippling sense of indecision, or cowering in the face of basic tasks, or cycling through all the horrible things everyone around you is thinking about you…nope, it’s feeling like any minute the other shoe will drop and what is currently leaving you a sobbing mess on the floor will suddenly become even worse. The fear of living: THAT is the worst part of anxiety.

Do I have anxiety? Yes. Do I have panic attacks? Also, yes. I take the meds and do the mental exercises and all the things I’m supposed to to minimize the effect of both anxiety and fear on my life. But I still have panic attacks, sudden bursts of heart-stopping fear that seem to come from nowhere, and also the long burning and deeply held suspicion that the worst to come is just around the corner. (Sometimes, fairly infrequently, I will have a panic attack and I know exactly what triggered the episode. Those kind of seem like blessings, really. Being able to name and identify the fear is a HUGE step in combatting it.)

I often feel trapped and claustrophobic in my own skin. I feel like this scary Thing is getting closer, circling around me like a monster hunting it’s prey. And sometimes I don’t know how to open a window, or turn on the light, and banish that fear to the back of my mind. I wish I knew how to do that. And I wish that when everything is The Worst I was able to remember the steps to bring back the light.

The last little while my panic and anxiety has been building, and some of it is coming from places I can identify, but in compounding itself the mountain of fear has become something so enormous I can hardly see it, I skirt around this Thing, careful not to poke it or irritate it, because I know if it wakes up it could destroy me. And I need it to NOT wake up right now. The damn giant needs to stay sleeping, gurgling and boiling just under it’s surface, but generally quiet, for just a little while longer. I am doing everything I know how to do to keep that scary mountain asleep, but I know that sometime soon it will explode like a volcano. I know it. I can’t control that part, I can MAYBE control when the explosion happens to a degree, but not if it explodes. The scary monster volcano mountain will always be there, it will always grow, and it will always–eventually–erupt into a fireball of ash and smoke and carnage. Anxiety volcanoes are never truly dead, just temporarily dormant.

Sigh. Living with anxiety is exhausting.

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Stormy Road

Grand Tetons_feistyharriet

Once upon a time, in the middle of the afternoon, in the middle of summer, a tremendous storm rumbled over these mountains, shrouding the valley in darkness, temperatures dropped at least 20 degrees as the freezy rain and hail shot like tiny cannons from the sky. Blue Eyes and I were driving through Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming, enjoying the views and trying to decide what hike to do next. As the wet road turned into a slippery, steely ribbon I started to get nervous, we finally found a place to park and watch as the thundering clouds stormed east followed by a thick cape of streaming gray rain.

In less than 30 minutes the storm had passed–summer storms in the mountainous West are ferocious, but usually short lived. Thirty minutes. I can wait out anything for thirty minutes. Sometimes, you need to take each day thirty minutes at a time. Sometimes that’s all you can manage. And sometimes you’ve become so used to living thirty minutes at a time that you forget how to live bigger than that. I can’t stop thinking about my breakthrough in yesterday’s post. Live bigger. Live broader. Pick a destination and work towards it. My thoughts are still kind of jumbly on the specifics, but I already feel like the realization has brought me more clarity than I’ve had in a long time. I’m still in the middle of the storm but I’m finally off the slippery road that has been leading me to nowhere.

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Life, or something like it

Hawaii_feistyharriet

There is something so soothing about watching the waves; small ones lap gently on the beach while large ones crash furiously over treacherous rocks, leaving white foam and tide pools in their wake. Poetically, the ocean seems self-cleaning, constantly changing, spitting out shells and garbage and mermaids, sucking sand and unsuspecting tourists out to sea. Ok, so my poem is kind of twisted. (Also, mermaids aside, I am well aware that the health of our oceans has been on a constant and steady decline for years.)

My soul belongs in the mountains, so this ocean thing is kind of a tricky analogy for me (I want SO BADLY to make a “fish out of water” pun, but can’t seem to work it in properly, so you get this parenthetical instead. You’re welcome.); I feel like my whole life is somehow caught right on that line between sand and sea, being pulled both ways at every moment, trying to straddle two competing forces and stay upright. I’m not just talking about a split between my home here in Arizona and my heart-home in Salt Lake, although I’m sure that division is a contributing factor. I feel like I’m waiting for something big to happen, waiting for forward movement, just waiting. I feel anxious and kind of discombobulated most of the time, restless even, not sure what to do or say. Sometimes I’ll be on the verge of a weepy break-down for DAYS at a time. This is…not a normal state of being for me, I feel cramped and irritated in my own skin. This lack of confidence is a really uncomfortable admission for me, and I wish there was an easy fix…emphasis on the EASY part.

I know, I know. Life is not easy. It’s not supposed to be easy. Any major shift or movement requires a lot of consistency, small and progressive goal making and achieving, and a long-term goal to work towards. Maybe that’s my problem right now…for most aspects of my life I do not have a long-term goal, no guiding star to help me navigate. So here I am, stuck in  the waves, without any real direction or urgency for getting unstuck.

The Cheshire Cat says that if you don’t know where you want to get to, then it doesn’t much matter which way you go. So, here I am, all Alice in Wonderland-ing my way through the days and weeks (and months?) feeling like I’m wandering in circles and starting to tire of the endless journey. The last few weeks I have kept thinking about ways to pull out of this wander-y funk, and I tend to gravitate towards extravagant grand adventure type solutions. (Road Trip to Prince Edward Island! Or Alaska! Hike a Dozen 14,000′ Mountain Peaks!! Spend a Year Doing A Thing To See If It Makes Me A Better Person!!) Each suggestion seems more maniacal than the last. But, really, my restlessness in daily living will be right here waiting for me when I get back.

I need some long-term goals, Life Goals that can help reshape and redirect my actions and modify my behavior. That’s a very fancy way of saying: I Need A Plan. I hardly recall a time in my adult life where I didn’t have a solid idea of where I wanted to be in two or five years, but suddenly when I try and conjure that up, I draw a blank. I mean, I’ll be here, in this house in the desert, with Blue Eyes and (on occasion) his kids. But that’s all I’ve got. And, truly, that is not enough for me. A healthy marriage and a safe & comfortable home is a really solid base, for sure. But I need more than that.

For my own sanity, I need to fix this. I need to find some long-term goals that will stretch me and be something to work towards. I am actually kind of embarrassed to admit that I don’t have any solid long-term dreams right now. Embarrassed and sad, I am legitimately weepy. I don’t quite recognize this version of myself, the sort of sedentary content-with-the-status-quo person.

Do YOU have long-term life goals right now? In your relationship? With your family? Finances? Work life? Personal life? Athletic life? Academic life? What do you do to remember how to dream big?

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Cracking, and putting myself back together

Salt Flats_cracked_feistyharriet

About ten days ago, I cracked. My exterior shell and interior soft bits had been stretched and strained for months, and finally the load was too much to bear and the cracks showed up on the surface. Prior to drowning I was able to at least call out that I was coming to pieces and with some help and encouragement I clawed my way back to the surface.

And then? I went home.

Part of my remote-working contract stipulates a number of paid trips back to Salt Lake per year for work. Last week was my first, and the timing could not have been better. It air was cold and bluebird clear, there was snow on the mountains and my schedule allowed for plenty of time in the office catching up with co-workers. I rocked a big work presentation that went swimmingly, and STILL had plenty of evenings free for catching up with friends, going to plays, hosting a book club, and celebrating my niece and nephew’s birthdays with Mexican food and lots of cake. My last night in Salt Lake we had a gorgeous snow storm (not Jonas level, but 8-12″ in the valleys and a few feet in the mountains). My flight home gave me some gorgeous views of freshly snowed-on mountains and stormy clouds obscuring the highest peaks. I am getting all swoony again just thinking about it.

Basically, it was the perfect week and I’m already counting down the days and weeks to my next trip.

Until the end of last year I have lived in Utah my whole life and I consider Salt Lake my hometown. In ways that some people will always think of their childhood neighborhood or their parent’s house as “home”, for me, it is a mid-sized city nestled between the Rockies and a Great Salt Lake. No matter where I am, or how happy I am there, Salt Lake will always be home. And that’s okay. This is a new emotion for me, this home-sickness, when I moved to Salt Lake to go to college I did not miss any previous residence(s), I just felt like I was home.

Now that I’m back in the Valley of the Sun I am trying to take your wonderful advice to heart. I have carved out some time for creative pursuits: I’ve doodled ideas for a dozen paintings, done a color study-sketch for three, and started the first with a promising layer of base paint. I picked a gym and am testing out two different yoga studios in my area (one is hot yoga, do you have thoughts or opinions about hot yoga?). I am researching some hiking and outdoorsy adventures for future weekend jaunts, and Mr. Blue Eyes and I are taking advantage of the mild weather to work on our backyard, he is building me some raised planter boxes for flowers and vegetables and we have plans for a patio and fire pit and a couple of citrus trees. In a few weeks our backyard will no longer be the depressing state of dead sprinkler parts and piles of partially-dead weeds. Baby steps, my friends. Baby steps.

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