Not Meant For Me
Mother's Day and why I'm sitting in my car
I never really think ahead about Mother’s Day. Sometimes my daughter, who lives nearby, cautiously asks if I’d like to do something together, but she and my son pretty much know the day is so traumatic for me that they need to give me a wide berth. Typically, it’s a no gifts or flowers sort of a day, as I’ve told them fifty times not to bother.
I don’t want to think about this day. I don’t want to remember all the bad things about my mother and my stepmother, and I don’t want to relive my ex-husband's mischief-making every year. He would preface Mother’s Day weekend with frivolous court appearances, then pepper the kids with phone calls and texts on the day, while we were trying to enjoy brunch. He really got off on ruining things. At some point, I decided to just forget about it. Fuck Mother’s Day. Fuck my birthday and just about every other holiday while I’m at it. What’s the point? They are all painful, stressful, and anxiety-producing. My poor kids — what a fuck up I am. I am so sorry they had to witness this — my falling apart each and every Mother’s Day.
To hell with this stupid holiday, is what I say. Fuck my ex, and a huge fuck you to my mother, who disappeared when I was five, and to my stepmother who was a cruel and controlling bitch for the remainder of my childhood. Put that on a Hallmark card. I’ve had a bad run of it in the mother department. Message received, y’all. I was a huge disappointment — as a daughter, a wife, and a mother. I was worth close to nothing to you. And yes, mom, I remember to this day the last words you said to me before I never saw you again: “I’m so ashamed of you.” Who says that to their kid when they say goodbye? I get it. I suck.
There were loads of possibilities for things to do today, including taking a Mother’s Day hike with a local group that comes to my boyfriend’s ranch each year. They are lovely people, the hiking is at an easily doable pace, and a picnic is enjoyed partway through the day. Good company, beautiful scenery, tasty food.
But no thanks. Did that hike last year, and not going to lie, it was tough pretending to be OK for that many hours. Really tough. Emotionally exhausting, in fact. This time last year, I was really trying to put on a good face for the new boyfriend. I didn’t want him to see how very damaged I am. This year, I simply couldn’t do it. Chalked it up to having a sore knee (to the outside world).
Also emotionally exhausting: hiding from everyone, which is what I do most years. Or doing what I did today, which was non-stop yard cleanup and moving of heavy things. I am now sweaty, filthy, sunburned, and sore. I was hoping that beating the shit out of myself would solve the problem. Did not. Off I go to continue the self-flagellation by washing my car, then swimming a hundred laps. I’m hoping to be so dead tired by the end of the day, I will forget all of this traumatic shit and just fall into a coma. Every year, I imagine the pain will fade, but here it is, as bad as ever. A ten.
Not sure I should return to my boyfriend’s house, where I currently live. It doesn’t feel right bringing in all this emotional weight into his space. It’s his home, not mine, and he has done nothing to deserve all of this angst. I am not his wife; I don’t expect him to cope with all these feelings of despair. His house, which he shared for so many years with his beautiful wife and life partner, is a sanctuary, and sadly, it is a constant reminder of all I am not. She was the consummate mother and grandmother, a wonderful wife and homemaker, an artist. I am none of these, and certainly not marriage material, especially this late in life. Sadly for me, and for him, I’m not the best of partners.
The same goes for my kids, who are wonderful in every way. They deserve every good thing in this world, but I’ve not much to offer these days, and I worry about burdening them. I think we all hope to leave something for our children, yet I have next to nothing. This happens to many of us who have been single mothers — now there’s a gut-wrenching feeling for you — having nothing to leave for your children.
I would say this: not having a mother is just about the worst thing in this world. Wrap your arms around anyone you know who shares this sadness. We are all just trying to get through this stupid holiday and to hold it together, something that is supremely difficult to do when you’ve not even the memory of someone who loved you as a mother should. At least I’ve given this to my kids, and I hope they feel it and know it: my love, all of it. It’s all I have.
It’s 5:00 p.m. — just a few more hours.
I can do this.
If it makes you feel any better, I was absolutely elated the Mother’s Day after my mother died because I didn’t have to buy her a card or stand on ceremony any more. I was relieved. I understand.
But don’t judge yourself, your mothering. You did your best and they know they’re loved. Believe me, that counts.
The disappearance and cruelties of my mother and her substitute also make Mother’s Day a crap show for me. I didn’t participate in the public activities, and I did throw myself into a big physical chore. It does help to work off the anger. But, I stopped after a couple hours, took a couple aspirin because I knew I’d be sore. Bought myself some dinner and relaxed for the rest of the day. The thing I finally found gratitude for was that they weren’t able to make me in their own horrific images. My sisters are psychologically carbon copies of them, to the point of repeating their verbal abuses, word for word, even the tonality. Had to move on from all of them, escape the hate.
I keep this on the fridge:
The Journey by Mary Oliver
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.