My Mother Issues

She sat on the end of the sofa nearest to the kitchen and I sat huddled under a blanket on the floor, right in front of the TV.  Every evening we watched Family Feud, Wheel of Fortune, and then some sit-com or other while she announced before each show that as soon as it was dark outside, we were going to bed.  It was only 6;00 pm. when this would start.  

At first I would protest it, "No! That't too early! I want to watch Dallas!"

"You don't need to be watchin' that trash. We goin' to bed soon as it's dark."

Usually we ended up watching Dallas.

But sometimes my mother's eyes would gloss over as she talked about bed time.  Her voice would grow cold and distant, the distinct little lifts and cracks of her cadence giving way to a more monotone sound as she peered up at the gun rack above my daddy's favorite chair.  

"I'm gon' go blind like my daddy did." She'd say.  "He had this ol' sugar too (Diabetes) an' it left him blind. I'm skeerd o' bein' blind." She'd say.  Then she would sit and ruminate about all the things in her life that hadn't gone well. 

Eventually she would drag my disappointments into the mix, about how this boy or that boy rejected me, about how we were too poor to get me braces and all the kids made fun of my teeth, about how I couldn't wear the stylish clothes or join the coolest clubs, etc. Things that mattered little to me in the grand scheme, but to my mother they sounded of utmost importance.

I would listen, wrapped tight in my blankets with the TV blaring at my ear, as my mother traversed into the tunnel of negative thinking.  I would watch it swirl around her and suck her in, little by little, until she would say, "I think the best thing to do is to wait until you're asleep and I'll take Daddy's gun and shoot us both." or "maybe I should just use the butcher knife and stab us both to death before Daddy gets home."

I would look at her, doe-eyed and unsure of how serious she was, before I turned around and started watching TV again.  I guess ignoring her felt safer than reacting to her insanity.

But that didn't mean that later, lying in the bed, I didn't remember her words.  Indeed, I remembered them and lay away many a night waiting for my dad to get home from working overtime on his second shift job at the factory. I listened for her footsteps, watched for her reflection in the glass of the book case outside the door of my room.  Watched her stare at me through its reflection, trying to discern without moving, whether she had a gun or  a knife in her hand as she watched me "sleep."  Many nights I fought sleep until I heard the front door open at 2 a.m. and heard my dad taking off his boots in the living room.  Once I knew he was home, I knew it was safe to sleep and sleep found me quickly.

As time went on and Dad worked later and later at night and the strange conversations happened more and more.  The threats of murder-suicide became an almost nightly theme, with my mother thinking up new and more creative ways to end me, then end herself before Dad made it home from work.  She must have thought it more merciful to kill me in my sleep, for she never acted out violently towards me when we were awake.  I never was sure though, whether she would try to kill me in my sleep.

Without having ever read a book on battered women or going to a seminar on how to escape a dangerous home situation, I, at 17 created an exit plan.  I packed a bag of clothes and put it int he back of my car.  I kept the passenger door locked, the driver door unlocked.  I kept my keys and purse right by my bedroom door (which was near the door that went straight out to the carport) and practiced my escape in my mind over and over again.  I set booby  traps in my room to wake me up should she come sneaking in in the dark with a knife or gun.  I hid a knife under my own pillow and assured myself I could fight her off and get out the door quickly enough to get away from her if I had to.

Thank goodness I never had to.

My mother never made these threats to my sisters.  I was the youngest, the only one left at home after they all married and moved away.  Then my dad took a second shift job and Mom was left lonely without his attention.  She didn't have other daughters around to fight with, argue with or say "NO" to every time they asked to go somewhere. It was just the two of us, and I always felt as if she wished I weren't there. However, if I ever asked to go to a church youth function the answer was always "NO!" Then the nightly haunting session of murder threats would commence.

One time at the lake I was playing in the sand while Daddy was out fishing in the boat. Mama was piddling around the campsite as usual.  She came down to the waterside where I sat at about 11 years old, sprawled out on the sandy beach in my swimsuit and a sand bucket, singing to myself as I built a castle..  "You know, if it waddunt fer you, your daddy'd pay me more attention. Sometimes I wish I hadn't ever had you."

I kept playing in the sand as if I didn't hear her.  As if her words didn't cut right through me and make me feel so unnecessary, unimportant, unwanted.  No, I didn't pay attention outwardly, but inside, as I built my castles I smiled, I imagined living in one..  I wondered if I was really ever meant to be, and if I was, why was I so unwanted by the very people who should love me?

"When me and your daddy divorce, who do you want to live with?"  I was expected to answer this question one morning when I was about 6 and I wasn't even sure what divorce was.

"When I'm dead, what stuff of mine do you want? Let's make a list" She'd say out of the blue.  This was years and years before her death.  She would name off her things and say who she was leaving this or that to, but she wanted me to choose what I wanted.  I never could think of anything I wanted.  I wanted a mom that loved me.  That's what I wanted.

I never told anyone about the things my mother said to me on those quiet, creepy evenings at home without Dad or witnesses.  I figured they'd never believe me anyway so why bother.  Or I thought they'd just roll their eyes and say, "That's just Mama. That's how she is." So I lived with my very real fear until I was old enough to marry and move away.

The first few years of my marriage I would startle awake in a cold sweat at night thinking I heard my mother's voice in our room.  My poor first husband had no clue about the threats I endured in that house with her all those years, but he was gracious and loving and always put his arms around me and reminded me that I was safe.  In time the nightmares faded, my mother aged, and the ravages of diabetes and dementia took over her mind in place of her personality disorders and deep depression.

She became more gracious and less angry.  She remembered less of the slights against her throughout her life and began to focus on the positives in her world a little more.  Oh, she always loved being the bearer of bad news--that never changed. But she became a hugger, an "I Love youer" and a "Wish you'd come more" kind of mom.  

The last time I saw her I sat on the arm of her new recliner and held her hand in mine.  I my heart was touched when I saw the similarities between our palms and fingers; the shape of our fingernails.  Her hands were warm and soft as I squeezed them between mine and asked her how she was. "I ain't no good at all, darlin." She said softly.

"I know." I said with tears welling in my eyes.

"How are you?" She asked. " I've been worried about you."

"Oh," I said, trying not to cry. "I'm just fine." I answered, remembering the heavy load of depression and failure that I carried on my back everywhere I went."I'm happy, Mama," I lied.

By the next morning she was gone.  Laid to rest in a casket wearing the blue dress I bought especially for the occasion. It was my last offering to her--just a little something to at least make her exit from this world more as she would have wanted it, since most of her life seemed to have been the life someone else wanted for her.

I was a burden. I was in her way, a disappointment and a drudgery to her for most of her days.  The least I could do in the end was make sure she was pretty in her casket.

And thank goodness, I wasn't in one right next to hers. Hopefully I won't need mine for some time to come.

The Quitter

I'm the quitter.

I quit trying to fix someone else.  I quit trying to love someone who doesn't know how to accept love. I quit telling myself I'm not good enough, or that my inability to connect with an Adult Child or a Personality Disordered person is my fault.

I quit believing that I have all the answers.  I quit giving so much of myself that I forget who I am.  I quit looking for the answers for everyone else instead of finding solutions for myself.  I quit internalizing the criticism, blame and shame that has piled up in my mind.  I quit avoiding my own needs and quit waiting for someone else to meet them.

I quit avoiding mirrors because I'm afraid of what will be reflected back at me when I see myself as I really am.  I quit trying to BE a mirror for other people who refuse to look at their own reflections.

I quit making excuses for the behavior of others, even though I love them and feel empathy for their pain.  Everyone has pain; we don't all choose to hurt one another because we hurt.  I quit acting out in ways that are not consistent with my character because of my own frustration and pain. I quit trying to fight fire with fire.

Instead, I hand you a bucket of water.  I give you a wet blanket, a fire extinguisher.  I sound a smoke alarm and make sure the doors are open so you can find your way out.  I let you borrow my phone so you can call the fire department; I wait for you outside where I can safely breathe while you find your way out. I quit telling myself you'll join me out here in the fresh air. I quit screaming at you to save yourself before it's too late.

I quit asking you for anything or expecting anything or hoping for anything from you.  I finally realize there's nothing there for me. Nothing you can offer me but a fully involved inferno of turmoil, shame, rage and fear and those are things I already have enough of on my own.

I finally recognize you: You are the child of neglect. the forgotten, the blamed, the invalidated.  You are the one who never saw a promise fulfilled, never knew what security was, never learned that real love isn't conditional.  You're the kid who didn't know that you could love someone and be angry at them too.  You are the kid who couldn't be a kid. You were the kid who wasn't allowed to feel, the kid who had to overlook his own inner world because of the constant threat of the outer world.


I get it. I understand why you can't trust. I understand the rules and regulations, the boundaries that are actually walls of defense, the yearning for closeness and the inner conflict that takes place when someone does manage to get a little too close.  My mind has a grasp of why you must believe the worst of everyone but my heart has trouble accepting it.  Until now, I couldn't stop blaming myself because I am so imperfect, so flawed, so inadequate. But now I know that by blaming myself, I give you weapons to use against me. I've allowed you to inflict pain upon me. I have even come back for more, time and time again.

But now I quit giving you the stick with which to chase me away.

Instead I hope you will smell the smoke and take steps to put out this fire that burns within you before there's nothing left of you anymore. I used to know you as someone else, but that person is swiftly fading away into oblivion. It's really a shame.  That person you used to be always made me smile.

I quit; but I hope.  And I wish hoping were enough but I know it is not.

Nothing I do will ever be enough.  I have to leave this to you.

So, I'm the quitter.

Granny's Tree

"I'm not even gon' put up a Christmas tree this year." She said.  "They ain't no point in all that mess."

At first I felt a little dismayed, but then I remembered, she said that every year.

Inevitably, the Christmas spirit won her over every time despite her consternation and there would be a Christmas tree of some kind tucked away in a corner of our house.  Many years it was a big bush of a cedar that my sisters and I went and chopped down, a few times a big bushy evergreen that my dad brought home from a hunting trip and in recent years, an artificial tree.  With five of us girls around, she never had to do any of the work but she secretly enjoyed the sparkly lights and ornaments with us after we strung the lights and flung the baubles on.

In the days leading up to Christmas the presents would start to pile underneath, just a few at a time after she would come home from the Dollar Store and hide away in the bedroom with wrapping paper and scissors. We were filled with anxious excitement while we waited outside the door, eager to check out the size of the packages and arrange them under the tree so we could feel them, shake them and poke them; try to figure out what surprises waited inside.

Yesterday Charlie and I went to visit with my dad for his birthday.  There was a sense of something missing, as there always is in the house now without my mother there.  The more I sat and chatted with him, the more I missed her.  I missed the way she tried to hide her child-like excitement at decorating for Christmas.  I missed her Christmas tree that she was so proud of the last few years, the little decorations she would pepper around the house, the way she would talk about "strands of lights" that didn't work.  Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore, and I found myself rummaging through the back room looking for her decorations.

I found the Christmas tree boxed up, her ornaments and lights put away in the same fashion they had always been; Thrown haphazardly in boxes and baskets and bags.  I found the lights all tangled up together in a ball and remembered that my job as a little girl was always to untangle the mess of lights my mother made when she put them away every January.  My dad watched and we talked while I put the tree together, untangled the lights and rearranged the furniture so I could put the tree where Mama always wanted it.  We found the colored sparkly lights and when I plugged them in, I could see the joy on my daddy's face. "Those are bright!" He exclaimed.  Charlie was delighted at the sparkly special effects.  My mama loved lights that did tricks.

I strung on the lights, all sparkling and colorful, but when I got to the last string, half of them didn't work.  There just weren't enough lights to make it look right, so I rummaged for more.  I found a big jumble of white lights and I was about to take the colored ones off and put the white ones on when I looked up and saw that the half-string that was dark and lifeless a few minutes before was suddenly blazing with bright beautiful light.  "Thanks, Granny" I said under my breath, and I finished the tree with her colored fancy lights.  I know she would have loved it.  She would have wanted it up, if for no other reason than to watch the fascination on the faces of all the great-grandchildren when they came to visit.  She would want my dad to have the joy of Christmas, even without her there.

My sister came in to pick up Daddy for church before I finished the work and cleaned everything up. I told him goodbye, "I love you" and promised to lock up the house for him when I left.  I rummaged until I found the tree skirt, found Granny and Papa's Christmas stockings, but decided to not put them out.  It felt too sad to hang just one.  It was too much of a reminder of her absence for my dad and for all of us.

The tree is there for her.  It is in her memory, in honor of all the Christmases she shared with us, playing Santa when we were little, buying dollar-store gifts for our kids, finding little somethings for the great-grands every year and messily wrapping them before piling them under the tree.  I loved her with every little snowman I hung on its branches, loved her as I placed the angel with crooked wings on top, loved her with one last look through the window at  the tree's twinkling lights as Charlie and I locked the door and walked away.

I hope it greeted my dad with warm memories of all the Christmases past when he walked in the door from church last night.  I hope he sat in its glow and remembered our mother with fondness, I hope he felt a little of her presence there with him the way I felt her there when I was decorating the tree.

I found a little of my mother yesterday, packed away in the back room of her house.  She comforted me with her lights and ornaments, and even with the careless way she had packed everything away from last year.  I remembered her with love and fondness for even her quirkiest of ways; but most of all I was reminded that as long as I live, she will live in me through all the little pieces of her that she gave of herself over the years.  She lives in my father, my sisters, her grandchildren.  She shines back at us from her Christmas tree, reminding us to embrace the joy of the season, even if, like her,
we are too proud to admit that the spirit seizes us like children all over again every year.

Final Rewards

His name was Harold. Born without hip joints, he had never walked. He lived in a nursing home from the time he was in his thirties.  His hair was always slicked back with grease, a few flakes of dandruff floating atop his quaff.  He wore button up shirts and grey dress-slacks every Sunday for church and when my dad picked him up in the church bus, he put his arms around Dad's neck and helped as he lifted him from his wheel chair into the front passenger seat.  I often marveled at how strong my daddy was as I watched him set Harold into place, fold up his wheelchair and heave it into the back of the bus.

As a child, I didn't think much about what my dad was doing.  I didn't think about him as a man with a family of five daughters who worked overtime every week.  I didn't consider how tired he must have been or how much extra time it took us as a family to get to church every Sunday or to get home from church after every service.  I never considered that my mother took on the extra job of getting up super early to cook breakfast for us on Sundays, get us ready for church a couple of hours earlier than all the other families, or sit on the front row of the bus instead of the passenger seat beside my dad, just so Harold could go to church too.  I never thought twice about my parents always making sure we were dressed neatly and all had our Bibles with us before we left.  Like any kid, I took it all for granted.  It was just our life and these were my parents.  I suppose that somewhere in my mind, I believed all parents were pretty much just like mine.

It really took becoming a parent myself to fully grasp all that my folks took upon themselves during those years when they were raising a family and giving back to others as much as they could.  I remember going with Dad to the nursing home on Tuesday nights, where he would play his guitar and sing, then give a short devotion for the residents.  He shook their hands and smiled, called the old ladies, "young ladies" and they were always so happy to see him.  I remember there was a mother and daughter who lived there;  the mother had no legs, and the daughter always sat beside her, holding her hand.  They were both old and as a kid I couldn't really understand how a daughter could seem the same age as her mother.  My dad encouraged us to sing with him.  We got our first experiences in front of an audience in the dining room of that little nursing home in front of little old ladies who were hard of hearing and old men who slept and snored back at us.  I like to believe we learned something valuable from those Tuesday nights.

I know I learned some important lessons about life sitting on the back row of the church bus as we picked up Harold and Mr. Corn and so many other elders from the nursing home for Sunday morning services over the years.  I learned about patience and understanding as we picked up Lonely Dolly from her house on the Mill Hill and listened as she recounted rumors and listed her complaints about living alone.  I learned about humility when we picked up Randy, a younger man who was disabled after an accident that killed his young wife.  I learned about forgiveness when we picked up a guy who later got arrested for being drunk and disorderly--then kept picking him up for church once he was out of jail again.  I learned about random acts of kindness when my dad stopped to help a stranded motorist and noticed their car was on fire before they realized it themselves.  He drove them home in the church bus after he helped them put out the fire.

My dad took his guitar to church and played along with the choir at every service.  He sang in front of the congregation with my mother and sisters, and later with me.  He attended every revival meeting, every Wednesday night prayer meeting and picked up slews of children every summer during the week of Vacation Bible School.  He taught a Sunday school class, faithfully gave his tithes went,  out of his way to help people in need,  and supported the pastor unfailingly.  During the summer he gave away food from our huge garden and fish he caught, and in the winter  he gave away venison because he usually bagged so many deer our family couldn't eat all the meat.  There were times when our own family was in need but he never stopped giving of himself in whatever way he could.  If he didn't have money or food to offer, he gave of his talents.  Giving was just part of his soul; it made him the Charles Curtis everyone knew and loved and often, took for granted.

My father gave of himself without ever considering what he might get in return.  It never entered his mind that he should get any kind of reward for his service to others, so maybe it is my error when I think of him now in his old age, struggling to drive himself to church with his memory failing and his body failing even more.  There is no church bus showing up at his door to drive him to Wednesday night prayer meeting; he tries to drive himself.  He got confused a couple of weeks ago and showed up for church at 5:30 in the evening. Church doesn't start until 7:00 pm.   He waited in the parking lot for a long time and finally decided they must have cancelled services then drove himself back home, disappointed. This has happened more than once.  He misses Sunday services a lot of times because he just can't get himself there.  Despite his many years of making sure Harold and Dolly and so many others got spiritually fed, he seems to be left alone to starve.

It's hard for me to not feel bitter.  Where is his church now that he stands in need of the very kindnesses he offered to others for so many years?  I guess this is a different era.  Maybe people don't consider the needs of others, especially the needs of elders, as much as they used to.  My father taught me to respect and nurture the elderly, but it seems that somewhere along the way, those important lessons got left behind.  Everyone seems so focused on the lives of theirs and their own that they forget to find that little shred of themselves that they can give to others.  We tend to focus on "what's in it for me" instead of  "what would be most helpful to them." I'm sure his church gives him their prayers.  I'm positive of their love for him.  I just keep wondering though, where are the hands of Christ, reaching out to serve and help?  How are they showing him their love; God's love, by merely praying and not backing up those prayers with their own actions?  How are any of us accomplishing the task of demonstrating the love of God to our fellow man?

I keep reminding myself that my father expects nothing.  He is not disappointed because he has always laid up his treasure in another place.  He never invested in the church hoping to get a return on that investment in his old age. My dad has always known his reward would come later; when he enters Heaven's gates and hears his Father say "Well done."  His reward will come when he sees Harold walking towards him with his arms outstretched, when he sees Dolly looking young and beautiful.  His reward will be all of those with whom he shared his heart in this life, sharing a beautiful eternity with him.  His  reward made even sweeter now,  by the waiting arms of my mother who will be there to welcome him Home at last.

Final Rewards

His name was Harold. Born without hip joints, he had never walked. He lived in a nursing home from the time he was in his thirties.  His hair was always slicked back with grease, a few flakes of dandruff floating atop his quaff.  He wore button up shirts and grey dress-slacks every Sunday for church and when my dad picked him up in the church bus, he put his arms around Dad's neck and helped as he lifted him from his wheel chair into the front passenger seat.  I often marveled at how strong my daddy was as I watched him set Harold into place, fold up his wheelchair and heave it into the back of the bus.

As a child, I didn't think much about what my dad was doing.  I didn't think about him as a man with a family of five daughters who worked overtime every week.  I didn't consider how tired he must have been or how much extra time it took us as a family to get to church every Sunday or to get home from church after every service.  I never considered that my mother took on the extra job of getting up super early to cook breakfast for us on Sundays, get us ready for church a couple of hours earlier than all the other families, or sit on the front row of the bus instead of the passenger seat beside my dad, just so Harold could go to church too.  I never thought twice about my parents always making sure we were dressed neatly and all had our Bibles with us before we left.  Like any kid, I took it all for granted.  It was just our life and these were my parents.  I suppose that somewhere in my mind, I believed all parents were pretty much just like mine.

It really took becoming a parent myself to fully grasp all that my folks took upon themselves during those years when they were raising a family and giving back to others as much as they could.  I remember going with Dad to the nursing home on Tuesday nights, where he would play his guitar and sing, then give a short devotion for the residents.  He shook their hands and smiled, called the old ladies, "young ladies" and they were always so happy to see him.  I remember there was a mother and daughter who lived there;  the mother had no legs, and the daughter always sat beside her, holding her hand.  They were both old and as a kid I couldn't really understand how a daughter could seem the same age as her mother.  My dad encouraged us to sing with him.  We got our first experiences in front of an audience in the dining room of that little nursing home in front of little old ladies who were hard of hearing and old men who slept and snored back at us.  I like to believe we learned something valuable from those Tuesday nights.

I know I learned some important lessons about life sitting on the back row of the church bus as we picked up Harold and Mr. Corn and so many other elders from the nursing home for Sunday morning services over the years.  I learned about patience and understanding as we picked up Lonely Dolly from her house on the Mill Hill and listened as she recounted rumors and listed her complaints about living alone.  I learned about humility when we picked up Randy, a younger man who was disabled after an accident that killed his young wife.  I learned about forgiveness when we picked up a guy who later got arrested for being drunk and disorderly--then kept picking him up for church once he was out of jail again.  I learned about random acts of kindness when my dad stopped to help a stranded motorist and noticed their car was on fire before they realized it themselves.  He drove them home in the church bus after he helped them put out the fire.

My dad took his guitar to church and played along with the choir at every service.  He sang in front of the congregation with my mother and sisters, and later with me.  He attended every revival meeting, every Wednesday night prayer meeting and picked up slews of children every summer during the week of Vacation Bible School.  He taught a Sunday school class, faithfully gave his tithes went,  out of his way to help people in need,  and supported the pastor unfailingly.  During the summer he gave away food from our huge garden and fish he caught, and in the winter  he gave away venison because he usually bagged so many deer our family couldn't eat all the meat.  There were times when our own family was in need but he never stopped giving of himself in whatever way he could.  If he didn't have money or food to offer, he gave of his talents.  Giving was just part of his soul; it made him the Charles Curtis everyone knew and loved and often, took for granted.

My father gave of himself without ever considering what he might get in return.  It never entered his mind that he should get any kind of reward for his service to others, so maybe it is my error when I think of him now in his old age, struggling to drive himself to church with his memory failing and his body failing even more.  There is no church bus showing up at his door to drive him to Wednesday night prayer meeting; he tries to drive himself.  He got confused a couple of weeks ago and showed up for church at 5:30 in the evening. Church doesn't start until 7:00 pm.   He waited in the parking lot for a long time and finally decided they must have cancelled services then drove himself back home, disappointed. This has happened more than once.  He misses Sunday services a lot of times because he just can't get himself there.  Despite his many years of making sure Harold and Dolly and so many others got spiritually fed, he seems to be left alone to starve.

It's hard for me to not feel bitter.  Where is his church now that he stands in need of the very kindnesses he offered to others for so many years?  I guess this is a different era.  Maybe people don't consider the needs of others, especially the needs of elders, as much as they used to.  My father taught me to respect and nurture the elderly, but it seems that somewhere along the way, those important lessons got left behind.  Everyone seems so focused on the lives of theirs and their own that they forget to find that little shred of themselves that they can give to others.  We tend to focus on "what's in it for me" instead of  "what would be most helpful to them." I'm sure his church gives him their prayers.  I'm positive of their love for him.  I just keep wondering though, where are the hands of Christ, reaching out to serve and help?  How are they showing him their love; God's love, by merely praying and not backing up those prayers with their own actions?  How are any of us accomplishing the task of demonstrating the love of God to our fellow man?

I keep reminding myself that my father expects nothing.  He is not disappointed because he has always laid up his treasure in another place.  He never invested in the church hoping to get a return on that investment in his old age. My dad has always known his reward would come later; when he enters Heaven's gates and hears his Father say "Well done."  His reward will come when he sees Harold walking towards him with his arms outstretched, when he sees Dolly looking young and beautiful.  His reward will be all of those with whom he shared his heart in this life, sharing a beautiful eternity with him.  His  reward made even sweeter now,  by the waiting arms of my mother who will be there to welcome him Home at last.