Most folks welcome holidays such as Mother's and Father's day. It's a time to treat your parents, have a great dinner, and with luck, a happy memory for everyone to look back on with pleasure. But there are a few of us out there for which these days are a twenty four hour stint in hell.
I don't do well with these. Both of my parents have passed away, and I was never fortunate enough to have children, despite wanting one very badly. Suffering from cancer put those dreams away for good. Mix in the fact that I did not have a close or loving relationship with either of my parents (nor with my stepfather, for that matter) makes me wallow in a day's worth of self questioning and despair. It's taken quite a few years of therapy to work out most of these issues to the point where they don't hurt as much, but that doesn't mean that they've gone away.
I suspect for many other people who have similar stories, Mother's day isn't a day they look forward to either. Society doesn't have support for the childless and abused either -- there are a constant stream of hints on the media to buy your mother something, take her out, and so on and so forth. Underneath that message is something a bit more insidious -- namely, if you're not a parent, there is something seriously wrong with you.
I grew up with a mother who was smart. Not just very intelligent, but a woman who had a mind like a steel-tiger trap, mixed in with a personality that was sociopathic at best. As a child, I could never quite understand why we moved around so much, or that she was never home. When we were left alone, in the early years, it was with our grandparents, and perhaps weeks or months would pass before she appeared again. When I reached my teens and we relocated yet again, I understood that it was now my responsibility to raise and take care of my brother. I also took care of the house, dusting, sweeping, washing, you get the idea. On top of that, I was to maintain an A average, but if I had any questions or needed help with my classes, forget it.
Dear old Mum was off working, chasing her next degree, or hunting men. There was a constant stream of men coming in and out of my mother's bedroom. Some of them were alright. But there were several that were unpleasant and I learned quick to jam a chair under the doorknob to keep them out. My mum was that sort who enjoyed mocking people, and humiliating them. To me, she added the additional twist of violence -- she thought nothing of slapping, hitting, punching or beating with a belt. The last few years that I lived her her house was hell, I didn't talk to her or my brother (he was her copycat in all things), and my life circled around the goal of getting out. When she beat me to unconsciousness once, I knew it was time to get out, no matter what the cost.
That was when I was nineteen. I had my university degree then, and threw what I could into a backpack, and with ten dollars in my pocket, I left. The streets would be better than what I was enduring under her roof.
As you may have guessed, I don't have a close relationship with anyone on either side of my family. The only time they contact me now is to let me know who has died, or they want something. I say No quite frequently these days. And as they say, Karma is a Bitch. There are still bad memories there, but I've learned coping skills and time happily, can heal up some of the wounds. As for the others, I am very careful about who I trust and let into my life. I can pretty much count those people on the fingers of one hand. And I don't think of myself as a victim, but rather as a survivor these days; I manage, and that's enough for me.
And truly, it only takes one misstep as a parent to ruin the relationship that you have with a child. I see so many accounts where parents have neglected and abused their children, and it leaves me feeling both sad and angry. Can't they realize what a great gift they have in having a child, to know that there will be a part of themselves to carry onto the future? Sometimes I just can not figure people out.
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