A Conversation with Mother

Why were you so mean to me?

I was never mean to you. I just spoke the truth.

You called me names!

I told you the truth. The truth’s not always pretty.

You prodded Dad into beating me!

Sometimes you need motivation to change.

You left me bruised and broken to my soul.

Why are you overreacting? I was just parenting. I wanted you to be strong.

I’m not overreacting! What you did to me was wrong!

It couldn’t have been wrong. Look at how strong you are now.

That strength came in spite of you, not because of you.

You always were spiteful. You’d cut of your nose to spite your face, I always said. That damn passive-aggressive nature drove me crazy!

I’ve worked very hard on that. I’ve gone to a counselor, and we’ve worked on it. It’s much better now, and not once did he feel the need to beat or berate me!

But he told you the truth, didn’t he? Maybe my words weren’t as nice as his, but I told you the truth, and for free!

You made me feel terrible about myself.

He didn’t tell you all the truth, though. He didn’t tell you you’re fat, did he?

See? There you go again, even from the grave!

Well, it’s true, isn’t it?

Yes, I’m too heavy, but why can’t you say it in a more constructive way?

Why? Fat is fat! You don’t have to be fat. You were skinny when you were a little girl.

But you wouldn’t let me have enough food. I was a growing child! I was always hungry, so I hid food and I snuck it.

I didn’t want you to be fat like me. I did what I thought was right. You were skinny, and I tried to keep you that way. I was always fat. You’ve seen the pictures.

Instead you made me fat.

You’re smart, though. That damn gifted mind of yours and your damn books. You figured out how to lose it, and then you put it all back on.

A lot of things were thrown at me all at once, and that was the way I knew to deal with it. I couldn’t lean on anyone else when Dad died. I had to be strong for everyone else. I didn’t even have the opportunity to grieve. I wasn’t even able to break down and cry over the loss of my father until five months later.

That was your choice. You could have cried at any time, just like the rest of us.

No, I couldn’t. I had to make sure you had the opportunity to attend your husband’s funeral. I had to be there for my daughter, who had just the most important man in her life, the one who made her feel loved and important. I had to take over as executor of the will, battling against a husband who wanted to have a piece of an estate that was rightfully entirely yours. Plus, that same husband burst out in tears at the funeral, but couldn’t take the time to ask how I was doing.

I tried to tell you not to marry him. I knew it would be bad. He was too much like your dad.

You bullied me about it. You made me want to run to him even more. You didn’t tell me why you didn’t want me to marry him. You just said not to do it. Of course, I thought anything you didn’t want me to do was the right thing to do.

You always were so contrary. It pissed me off so damn much when you would ask what I thought of an outfit, and then change it if I liked it!

I know. That was more passive-aggressiveness. I didn’t want to be anything like you. I tell people now that the best thing I ever learned from you was how NOT to be a parent.

Well, I’m glad you learned something that wasn’t in one of your precious books!

Why did you hate my books so much? You bought most of them for me.

I bought them because you loved them, and you learned things from them. I hated them because they took you away from us.

They didn’t take me away. I used them. I used them to escape. They helped fuel my imagination and transported me to a happier place, a place where I didn’t get hit or ridiculed.

I always wished you’d been born retarded like the doctors said you would be. That I knew how to deal with. A gifted kid…what was I supposed to do with that? They didn’t even know much about it.

Well, telling them they’re stupid was certainly not something the experts advised, I’m sure.

I thought maybe you’d do better in school, if you thought you needed to learn more. No one ever understood how a kid in the gifted class could get such bad grades, let alone fail the eighth grade.

I just didn’t care. I knew what I knew and didn’t see why I had to prove it with homework. I aced tests. I thought that should be enough to prove it.

I failed eighth grade because PaPa died the year before, and it still was a raw spot for me. I never did get to mourn him. He was my rock and my safe place. He never believed I could do anything wrong, and he loved me no matter what. It hit me harder than you can ever know. The year he died, I took a half a bottle of your blood pressure medicine, and you never even knew until I told you shortly before you died.

Don’t you think it affected me, too? He was my father! I never understood why he loved you so much. He never loved me like that, and I was his own daughter! Was it because you were prettier or smarter or funnier? I never understood.

Mom, you sound jealous. How can you be jealous of your own daughter? There’s just something not right about that.

Maybe I could have been smarter if I’d studied more. Maybe I could have been prettier if I’d just tried harder.

Maybe someone should have told you that you don’t need someone else’s opinion in order to value yourself. I am still learning this lesson, and it’s hard, but it’s so freeing not to have to please the rest of the world in order to please myself.

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