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I really want to read Jeanette McCurdy's memoir, 'I'm Glad My Mom Died'. So many people have outright recommended it to me, as if I hadn't heard already heard about it through all the discussions online and off. If you hadn't heard about it already, amazon says it's about her struggles and experiences as a former child
actor (she was Sam, the best friend on iCarly), "including eating disorders, addiction, and a complicated
relationship with her overbearing mother—and how she retook control of
her life."
Now the main reason I've been frequently recommended this book is because of my own tumultuous relationship with my own mother who I very recently went No Contact with after months and years planning to do so. The thing is, that's actually the number one reason why I still haven't read that book and I'm struggling to see myself doing so any time soon.
It feels very selfish to say this, but I'm scared the book will make me feel that I was wrong. Usually when someone is absolutely refusing any kind of hint that they could have made a mistake or might have made a bad decision, they're super selfish! They don't want to feel the guilt or negative feelings that are necessary for self reflection and so they just refuse, no matter how many people they hurt by doing so.
Maybe I am doing that. Maybe I truly am deeply selfish like I was told I was anytime I begged for any semblance of help or care that exceeded the bare-bones negligence I was handed everyday of my life from the people who actively chose to bring me into the world. It's probably not. At least that's what every psychologist, support worker, and person who actually has taken the time to show me true unconditional love has told me. According to them, I didn't deserve to be treated like a burden for simply existing and then being blamed whenever I wasn't outright overjoyed by that treatment, even though the disabilities wouldn't let me perform that the way they wanted even if I did feel it.
But that doesn't mean I believe it. At least not yet and not fully.
When I say it was recent that I went No Contact, finally, I do mean recent. Today marks two weeks since I sent my mother the email that contained a letter I had made countless, thousands of words of drafts, before finally accepting that I needed to stop trying to make it "perfect". I wanted to be completely brutally honest for the first time ever, so much of my relationship with my mother was made up of lies from me trying to appear to her in a way she could accept and I wanted to finally tell her everything I wanted to say. But I knew that would never be accepted and I wanted to keep myself and my sister, who still lives with my parents, safe and experiencing the least amount of fallout possible. I fought every step of the way to not over-explain myself as I had learnt to do from the frequency at which any simple conversation would be torn apart by my mother to find any imperfections to attack me with. Any sign of pointing the blame was removed or sanitized in an attempt at constructive and productive communication.
I said what I needed to, that I needed to take care of myself and surround myself with people who could take of themselves, that I hope my mother can take care of herself better too especially by seeking some therapy, and that I ask that she not reach out to me anymore for any reason. I didn't get the catharsis I had been hoping for as an autistic person who feels so horrible about any dishonesty at all but I hoped that the letter would instead be a catalyst for my mother to actually take some criticism constructively for once and try to better herself now that her actions did have consequences.
But what does this have to do with a book? Well, even though I knew from literal YEARS of planning and my own therapy that this was absolutely what was best for me, I was still fucking terrified I was making a mistake. I was so scared that I WAS actually wrong. It WAS all in my head and made up for attention. That I somehow faked my feelings or made choices to absolve my guilt for just being a disabled child that exists in a world that doesn't want them. No matter how much I intellectually knew that was awful and that I 1000% did not believe it for any other disabled person in the entire world, I still deep down couldn't shake what I had been taught for so long.
So when I sat in my psych's office, checking my email after she'd asked if I ever got a reply from my mother, and I found that she actually had, my heart dropped. I was so scared that I had cut my parents out of my life because I felt they hadn't adequately acted as their chosen roles (they had my sister and I totally voluntarily and with years of planning) but then I'd receive a response from her that'd prove me wrong. That she'd say she was absolutely devastated about losing a part of her she had carried for nine months and would struggle to recover but that she would want what was best for me, no matter the cost to her. I dreaded the amount of emotional labor my ever patient and loving girlfriend would have to shoulder as I completely broke down, having to be reminded and convinced that I HAD made the right choice to do what was best for me.
That didn't happen. My mother didn't once mention that she would miss me and instead focused on arguing against my apparent anger that she hadn't gotten me diagnosed at a young age despite me never once mentioning anything even close to that in the letter. I'm genuinely not angry about that, at least not at her, I am fully aware of the leaps in progress we have made about understanding Autism since I was young and I don't fault her for not going to a professional to get them to diagnose me with autism. I mean, I don't believe her when she said
no one said anything and she had absolutely zero idea that anything was
wrong as that it just outright impossible given our history but I actually never outright blamed her for anything. The point of the letter wasn't to lay blame but to move forward, for both of us. Yet she wrote as if I did and therefore was able to argue against a point that didn't exist.
I was scared I'd be invalidated and spiral into guilt but instead my guilt was eased. Here was, once again, explicit written proof of why I had to leave. I guess I'm grateful to my mother for making it easier? Even at the expense of how awful that whole letter was.
But again, WHY DID I BRING UP THAT BOOK?? Mostly as an excuse to vent about all this I guess but also, because I'm terrified that I'll be once again invalidated and made to feel guilty about my choices.
In no way would McCurdy's book have the intention of invalidating other's experiences of abuse. In fact, it may be outright cruel of me to even accidentally insinuate that. I am certain that book is incredible and my unease is made even more frustrating due to how desperately I WANT to read her book!!
But right now, I'm on a razors edge of self-assurance. I am so wobbly in my own conviction despite all the evidence that I'm right that I fear anything can tip it. Jeanette's experience was truly horrible, far worse than anything I'd experienced, but that is why I'm scared of it. What if I see how horribly she'd been treated and how strong she'd been to make it all the way to her mother's death and all I can see is my own failure to endure? What if I enter her incredible story about her own life and pain and all I can see is my own? What if I use HER experience just to hurt ME?? Isn't that the most selfish thing of all????
And I don't really know what to do about that right now. It's awful that I can't experience art because my own mind will take any opportunity to use it against me in any way it can. But I also know I need to be patient with myself. It's been barely 14 fucking days since this has happen and I read that response from my mother 2 DAYS AGO!! That is abso-fucking-lutely not enough time to have processed and worked through the conditioning I have been put through for all 25 years of my life. Of course the wounds are stinging and bleeding and still festering from being inadequately treated for so long.
I'm proud of myself for getting here. I'm frustrated I'm not further. I'm furious I had to do any of this at all.
I really look forward to the opportunity to, one day, be able to take those kindhearted recommendations and sit down to enjoy Jeanette's supposedly incredible writing. But I guess in the meantime I might have to gently turn them down and make the effort to choose, once again and every single time for forever, to put my needs first.
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