Let Them See You

In today's world when we are so inundated with information and have access to communicate with one another on every platform imaginable, how well do we actually know each other? Sadly, not very.

Over the past couple of years, this has hit home for me so many times. I had 39 years to get to know each of my parents, and there are so many things I can't answer about them both. I know they loved their siblings and me beyond measure. They both worked incredibly hard to make ends meet for our household, and they were both generous to others even at a detriment to themselves.

My Daddy's favorite cake was red velvet, and he peanut butter was the only food he would refuse outright. He loved parched or boiled peanuts though, and they were a favorite snack. He was very food adventurous and would always try the new restaurants and new types of food with me.

Mama liked salted peanuts in Coca-Cola, but only one in the glass bottle. She thought all pork was bad for you because her doctor told her not to have ham or luncheon meat because of her high blood pressure. I could not convince her for the life of me that he meant salt cured pork and processed meats because of the sodium. Even a shake of black pepper was too spicy for her. She drank a lot of water and loved crushed ice from Sonic.

I don't know their favorite colors or favorite movies or favorite songs. I don't know where they went on their first date. I never heard a story about when they knew they loved each other or their wedding proposal or marriage. I know the wedding took place at the courthouse.

I wish Daddy had talked more about his mother. I know she worked hard to raise her five boys, and it wasn't easy. Daddy helped when he could, and I am sure the other older boys did too. The youngest boy was still in school when she passed away. I was a toddler and only have the briefest and fuzziest of memories of her. We visited her sisters often, and I like them a lot. I sew like her and embroider. Daddy gave me her sewing machine when I learned to sew.

I wish I had spent more time getting to know both of my parents as people outside of being my parents. I think that's what you are suppose to do as adults. We lived so far apart, and we were able to spend so little time together once I was out of school. And then they were both gone so quickly. We never had the chance to do so many things.

Their deaths has taught me never to take time or people for granted. Say what needs to be said, keep in touch, don't put things off until tomorrow. Tomorrow is never guaranteed.

Witchy Wednesday Writing Prompt - Holding up a Mirror

In what ways am I like my parents? In what ways do I hope I'm not like my parents?

My parents were very different people. In ways I am made up of parts of both of them, and in other ways I am nothing like either of them.

I have my father's patience. I am very slow to anger, but it is impressive when it does finally happen. And I may eventually forgive, but I do not forget what and who lit the fuse. This is good and bad. I always admired that he didn't resort to yelling and violence in the face of the same aimed at him. He chose the higher road so to speak. But I know while he seemed strong and immovable on the outside, he was bending and breaking on the inside. Toward the end of his life, I think he decided life was too short to be silent, and he found his voice in conflicts. Sometimes he may have been too harsh for the situation at hand. I think he was responding to 40 years of those situations all at once. I do not want that to happen to me. I do not want my spirit to be broken by emotional abuse. I try very hard to make my feelings known in a constructive and thoughtful manner and to push back if I am being treated poorly.

I inherited his love of exploration. He taught me to explore and learn through books, travel, conversation. My father kindled in me a fire of creativity and curiosity that has never waned. If financially feasible, I never pass up the chance to visit somewhere new and meet new people with different experiences than my own. My father always wanted to travel, but up until the point when he got sick, he was always working. He could never afford to take the time off work to be able to go to the places he read about. Then he was diagnosed with cancer and went through years of treatments and procedures. He was finally well and wanted to plan his first trip, and then he passed away. He never got to enjoy his retirement the way he'd always hoped he would. It's why I don't wait. If the opportunity comes up and we can swing it, we travel. We try new foods. We read new books. We experience everything we can.

My mother was a very passionate person. She rarely had a middle of the road opinion about anything. She loved it or hated it, and there was seldom and instance where anyone could change her mind once it was made up. In ways it was good because she was very persistently dogged in her determination to help when her help was offered. She fought long and hard for the people she cared about no matter what it was they needed. She gave a lot of people a voice who didn't have one. She fought for medical care. She fought for the senior folks she worked for to make sure they had proper assistance so they could stay in their own homes and for the most part on their own for as long as possible. She fought for the kids she saw being neglected. She taught me I had to stand up for myself because there may not always be someone around to do it for me. She taught me there is always someone else to ask, someone else to call, someone else to write a letter to until what needed to be done got done. No was rarely an acceptable answer when she had decided on a course of action. Her methods of fighting the fight were often not to my liking though. Whether she meant to or not, she bullied mercilessly to get her way. Physically, mentally, emotionally. If you misstepped and did something she didn't approve of, there was no getting away from consequences from her. There was no sharing of ideas. There was no discourse or compromise. There was not swaying of minds. I learned to melt into the background as much as possible to avoid notice so that I could exist as I was and not who she wanted me to be. It has taken many years to recover from that.

With all that passion, she was quick to anger but also quick to cool down. She would rage like a hurricane that you'd think would never end. But then once she was done, it was like it never happened. Quite literally, you could try and discuss with her five minutes after a yelling spree, and she would have no idea why you thought she might be angry. Done is done. Once the anger left her, it was like it never even happened. It was infuriating to me growing up. I wanted to discuss. I wanted to try and understand why she blew up at me about this or that. I wanted to try and understand her. I don't know if in her mind the anger really was done once she was finished yelling or if she just never wanted to let people get close enough to her to let them in. My mind and heart do not work that way, and I was never able to understand how she could be boiling mad one moment and happy the next. 

My mother was very generous and selfless in many ways. She have of herself until she physically harmed herself by doing too much. She put everyone else's health and happiness above her own, and seeing to herself often got pushed to the side or forgotten altogether until something came up that she couldn't ignore. She took care of my grandfather when he was sick near the end of his life. She took care of my father through years of sickness near the end. If someone in the family needed something, she made sure they had it. She made all of the phone calls to arrange appointments and medication and education and whatever else needed to happen. She loaned money knowing she'd never get it back. Sometimes that was money they really needed to keep things going for themselves, but instead my parents sacrificed their own comfort and well-being to see someone else get taken care of. She knew everyone's birthdays and anniversaries and the names of all of their kids. She knew their families and friends and went out of her way to do nice little things to make their days happier. She taught me that someone out there is always having a worse day or is in a worse position than you are in. If you have extra money, time, etc. to give, give it without expecting anything in return. 

I am a little ashamed to put it into words. Overall, I am many things my father taught me to be, and I am many things my mother taught me not to be. There were good and bad in both. No one is perfect. I love them both equally, and I learned so much from them both that I am grateful for. But in some instances the love is so intwined with personal pain that it's hard to untangle.

The Lie of Growing Up

When it comes to our relationships with our parents, do we ever really get to grow up?

I’m adult woman. I've spent almost as much of my life on my own as I did in my parents' home. Why does the thought of being in the house with my mother for six days create such a violently negative reaction? Don’t get me wrong. I love my mother. I would do anything for her. But … we rarely see eye-to-eye on anything.

Our relationship has been comparable to a destructive force of nature since I was old enough to refuse to wear the endless supply of frilly dresses she bought me. I was six years old. Things have only gone downhill since then. We didn't agree on what I wore, what toys I played with, or what activities I wanted to participate in. As I grew older she agreed even less with what I wore, she detested the people I chose as friends, and let’s not even start on how she felt about the few people I dated who were brave enough to come over to my house for a visit. Now … it’s pretty much the same, but she has more to dislike. Now she can add not linking where I live, what I do for a living, and the fact that I do not visit often enough.

I only visit my parents once a year for Christmas, and I’m a ball of nerves leading up to every visit. I should have ulcers for the hours of worry that goes into each holiday “vacation.” I purposefully limit our trips to three days plus travel just to reduce the time for conflict. You see I say reduce time and not reduce the chance of conflict. I know it’s going to happen at some point during the visit, but with only three days, it doesn't happen as frequently.

I think a lot of our continued conflict boils down to the fact that I've changed and she hasn't.

I spent the first twenty something years of my life being peacekeeper in our household. I took the verbal abuse that was dished out, and I held my tongue. My mother is like a hurricane. Once she gets going, there’s no stopping her until she’s done. Growing up, I dealt with that by making myself as unnoticeable as possible with the theory that if she doesn't notice me, she won’t start yelling at me for something. If she wasn't able to pick the fight then she didn't have the opportunity to push my buttons and engage me. Engaging in those fights only left me frustrated and hurt and crying.

I grew up, I moved a little farther away with each relocation, and in so doing slowly distanced myself from the chaos. At this point in my life, I’m just not willing to take the abuse and stay quiet. I don’t sit by meekly. I give as good as I get, but I like to be sneaky about it. I know if she starts an argument and I take the bait, it’s only going to end badly for me. She always wins in those situations. But if I never engage, I take that away from her. Nothing makes her angrier than someone walking away from her attempt at starting a fight. I hang up the phone, and I don’t answer the return calls. I delete the emails and Facebook posts. I disengage before anything can start.

I’m her only child, and I've decided if she wants to keep me in the loop she has to respect my right to make my own decisions even if she doesn't agree with them. I've made good choices and bad choices, but ultimately, I’m the one that has to live with the consequences. I refuse to be controlled and manipulated. I've made calculated decisions in my life to try to alleviate that constant strain, and I've been pretty successful at it overall.

And, yet, here I am feeling my stomach tighten into knots at the thought of being in the house with her for six days. No wife with me to put my mother on good behavior. No car of my own to use as a quick escape route. No support network to act as a buffer between what I know to be true and what I’m sure I will hear her say at some point during my stay. No alcohol or sex to take my mind off of things. 

It’s not a situation I want to put myself in, but I need to be there for more important reasons. It’s something I have to do. I'm not a teenager any longer pushing boundaries and establishing independence. That battle has already been fought. I grew up. An adult child and her mother at some point have to be able to set it all aside and be the friends they couldn't be during the growing period, right? And so I have to tell myself the lie that everything will be different this time. To quote one of my favorite movies and pieces of literature, "I like the pretty lies."