My mother texted me at 4am Thursday. The text didn’t say much, she wanted to talk to me. I didn’t call though. I talked to my sister close to noon and she had gotten a text as well and had called mother at a reasonable hour. Mother had fallen Wednesday night and broken her shoulder. She is quite fragile and kind of tiny and thin and clumsy. She used to not be so prone to accidents. As she gets older, she gets more and more unbalanced, both physically and mentally.
I thought about it, but I decided not to call her anyway. And that is what is happening with me. I am not calling my mother. I have made an enormous effort through the years to distance myself from the crapitude of childhood. I have tried to be a responsible parent and to parent only my children. I have tried to separate myself from my co-dependant family. When i do talk to my mother, she no longer degrades me or insults me or tries to hurt me emotionally or physically. I understand that she feels she has moved on. She thinks she is a different person now than when I was a child. I can see that in some ways she is. But not in all ways.
When I was young, I was the one who had to take care of people. I had to help my mother and my sister all the time. I was the one who cooked dinner and did laundry and got us up in the morning and put us to bed at night and handled homework. I balanced my mother’s checkbook until I was 25 years old. My mother did stuff. but she didn’t do the parenting stuff as much as we needed. She was broken a lot of the time. Sometimes, she was crazy and violent and angry. Sometimes, she was sad and depressed and distant. Sometimes, she was young and happy and fun. She was always just our mother and we always just worked around whatever the situation was.
I don’t want to do that anymore. I don’t want to have to pick over her emotional despondency now. I don’t want to have her depression and illness drag me down. Whenever I talk to her, she manages to take me back into the past. I get sucked down into a low place that takes me days and days to climb out of. I get sad and angry and depressed myself. I get resentful. It hurts. It makes me unhappy. But she is my mother. I should talk to her. I just don’t know how. She lives in a whole different world than I do. She stunts my development and I relapse and retract and revert.
guh. So, my mother was quite unstable as a parent. When I was a kid, I didn’t know that she was wrong. I just accepted the way she acted. After I was an adult, my mother wa diagnosed as Dissociative Identity Disorder. In the old days, it was called split personality or multiple personality. On tv, soap opera people have it all the time. usually a middle-aged lady will have a teenage boy name Tommy in her and a hooker named Trixie and a suburban housewife named Donna and the middle-aged lady named Suzanna has no idea these other people exist. My mother never had a boy named Tommy come out. She sometimes wanted to be called by her full first name. She sometimes wanted to be called by the shortened version her family always used. And sometimes, she wanted to be called an even further truncated form of her actual name. But, I always just called her Mama. All of her different ways of acting and being were all my mother. She was never some other lady who didn’t know who I was or thought she lived someplace else. She just wanted to go out on dates and get drunk more often once in a while. She wanted to beat the ever-loving crap out of me more often every now and then. She wanted to hide in her room and cry everyday for a week from time to time.
She still has this disorder. She is never going to be “integrated” or whatever. Her degree of multiplicity is not so severe that she can not function. For a certain definition of function. But the degree of her mental instability and her emotional immaturity and her extremely negative life is so hard for me to deal with. She lives hours away. She has a husband who should be responsible for her. She is a grown up. I am always reduced to being the responsible parent of her whenever we talk. I feel compelled to heal her and help her and fix her. And I can not do any of those things! So I feel guilt and I feel like a failure and I feel stress and impatience and fear. I hate hate hate feeling that way. It makes me want to not have to talk to her. I don’t know how to stop my childhood issues from creeping into my adult life. I don’t know how to stop feeling like I have to make everything right. I don’t know how to not want to hold it all together until the storm passes and a more helpful aspect of my parent shows up.
ugh. This is not very coherent. Maybe I can try again later. In the meantime, I am going to have to gird my loins and call my mother. She is ill. Her husband is a self-centered fucktard. She is lonely and in pain. And she wants me to call her.