Our Parents Our Martyrs

Well, I'm pretty fucking tired. So we'll see how cohesive this ends up being? I've posted many 'o bulletin and I'm getting pretty fucking sick of the radio silence from everyone. Either that, or the awkward comment equivalent of passing by a homeless whose finally snapped from all the abuses these brittle systems bring. (Okay, majorly dramatic, I by no means, know what it's like to really be homeless). I get it, I'm not the best of friends, by no means like the queen and better-community-builder-Kathleen, thee Ms. Kathleen Hanna. You really should read her new book Rebel Girl. It's the newspaper every lost girl in her own privilege needs for cover. Okay, that's a horrible metaphor. (I'm so the Susan character from the book, I'm too timid in person to be a Courtney). I told you, I'm tired! It's a powerful book either way. Written by a person from my mother's very own generation and her path of wanting to be heard not seen. ANYWAY, I think I'm done with bulletin posting and will take refuge here as a virtual street performer instead. Unless I have something real pleasing to the all seeing masses which is unlikely, let's be real. But I still enjoy writing for nobody and appreciate the few coins (kudos) occasionally tossed my way into this old hat here.

Okay, for real though, let's get to the real meat of this flashy title, shall we? I officially cut off all contact from my mother fifteen days before her fifty-something birthday. I just couldn't keep doing it. I let her biweekly manicured nails dig into my mind, soul, and heart every time we talked. I can't be operating on these levels of rat race obsession anymore. I'm too sensitive, and people know it. It's like the many scents I radiated in the past. The ever popular with the lads 'no-dad' perfume and the 'I was SA'd once let's make it thrice' aroma. My siblings moved far far away to avoid meeting in the dark sad corners of our three part holiday extravaganzas. First my mom takes turns trying to get the intricately designed mask of each individual failure to slip, then serves us a processed in a dirty factory, 5 second meal from the 50's, and then we end the occasion by fighting in hierarchical order like the true hyenas we are, while the alpha dog looks on; pleased. My mom NEEDS my sister. My mom loves my brother. And I'm left as the lowest-ranking clan member. Alright, I'll cool it with the lame nature references, but if you get a chance, you should really watch the nature doc the Lion King was based off of. I'll have to ask David for the title again.

I watch this licensed therapist online called Micky Atkins, before finally signing up for my own after school sessions. She talks a lot about parents and how they kind of shit the bed in a lot of areas. But it's not about the sheets, guys. It's about acknowledging the shit. Ya know? My final conversation with my mom ended with her proclaiming she will go to her grave believing she did right by me. (In all areas of life, even the current stage we're in now with our relationship). I've been as direct as I possibly can with her about my...I hate to use this word, because it's thrown around like hard candy at a cheap parade, but there's nothing else to call it...my childhood trauma. I've finally come to terms with the fact that my dad was probably a high functioning alcoholic and though he didn't try to touch me in bed...I think? His relentless teasing from ages 3-11 was a lot to internalize as a small, very sensitive to all things, human. He made fun of me for EVERYTHING. Failing school. Fucking up a dance move. Singing off key. You name it. He capitalized on it's comedic value all throughout my childhood. After scanning his middle school through high school year books, he was kind of the class clown/bully of every classroom he was in. He was the Biff to my mom's Buffy for sure. Let's be real. They enjoyed cosplaying as 1950's parental figures even though the two assholes got to have fun and get drunk in the 80's like everybody else. I'm coming to terms with that! And with it comes confronting my mom...again. Especially if we're going to move forward as adults in an authentic relationship.

Spoiler, she's too spiteful for that and unless I'm willing to put the 'mommy gloves' she forgot to wash before trying on with any of us, she's not interested. I will have to parent my parent. And like Atkins often says, it fucking sucks parenting your parent. Especially if you're a big, emotionally stunted kid yourself. My sister use to say in frustration, I am exactly like Mom and this is why we fight so much. Granted, I like to think I've evolved a little bit from Buffy, but my mom does bring out this stunted individual in me and if I let her, I will allow for said individual to control the emotions for my upcoming weeks and weeks. And David doesn't deserve to live around that. I know there will be more to work on in therapy. I'm by no means 'evolved' like my sister...or a transcended being on a snowy mountain top or whatever the graduating classes of '12-'14 are saying to each other while sliding down rainbow arches of a Coloradical landscape high outta their minds from one gummy. Least her skin will dry out before mine. Well, I have chronic depression, so we'll tie at least. SEE, fucking petty! But my mom just brings out the poison in all my relationships. Slapping me across the face a few doors down from my friends assuming position for a sleepover, creating a very believable for a dumb-me 'homeless teen' simulator...to my own volatile reactions from experiencing our relationship long term with her onto a bewildered boyfriend who only wants the best for me. Even if it's a very infuriating mountain top with no snow or arches behind it; I want a real apology. Or at least a real connection with her. And she can't give it to me. She thinks being more stable of a parental figure then her plagued with bipolar mother (WHO actually survived the 50's) is a stepping stone for victory.

She's the pretty, blonde, martyr who HAD to let her children go when they failed to serve. And I just don't see the reality in that? Forcing your child to call and check up on you isn't natural. Playing these mind games where you could easily trip on an emotional wire isn't fair. And I'm just too old to let it keep getting to me like this. She asked for space first. I think this might be something I can successfully accomplish for her without mistake.

Warning: She talks REALLY REALLY REALLY fast, but all is true.