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.