It’s my mother’s birthday. She’s 86. I wish I could call her. Call her up and say, “Hi, mom. It’s been a long time,” and listen to a voice I haven’t heard for 27 years. It’s not that I’ve forgotten it. It’s just that it’s not safe for me to call her, even though, she’s alive; even though, she’s near.
Twenty-seven years ago, she was 59—four years younger than I am now. She was angry then. I understand she’s angrier now. My mom is consumed by the world in her head, victimized by so many people who didn’t do right by her. Any list I make would never cover them all.
Her mother couldn’t take care of her. Multiple foster parents were abusive. Relatives who molested her. Her father had a second wife. I haven’t even gotten out of her childhood. Husbands that didn’t understand her or take care of her. Money that didn’t come her way. Denial of either of her uncles’ estates she believed she was entitled to. My grandparents left her nothing in their wills. Employers who didn’t treat her fairly. My father who had more children with his second wife instead of her and married a third. Men who took advantage of her and tossed her away in a world that didn’t teach her self-sufficiency.
Then, there’s me. From what I could tell, I’ve been a grave disappointment. I left her house at 14. I sought help from counselors when my mother could have provided everything I needed. I manipulated mental health professionals into believing I was abused. My grandparents wanted to steal me from her. I went to live with my grandparents instead of her or my dad. I became a lesbian. My partner is Jewish. I withdrew from her to protect my daughter from her.
On and on it goes. My mother can recite line after line of the ways she was mistreated. In fact, she’s essentially unable to converse about anything else. It is heartbreaking and abusive. She’s ten digits away on my phone. I could hear her voice speak to me just before the cascade of wrongs becomes her sole focus.
My brother still tends to my mom’s needs. He drives her to her doctor’s appointments. I don’t think she sees his children much anymore. She’s unable to respect verbal and physical boundaries. My brother told me she ranted so much on the way to the doctor he had to tell her to stop talking or he would never take her again. Is this anyway to live?
To enter into a relationship with her is to engage in a war of grievances. There is no resolution. No peace treaties. No reconciliation. No end to the recitation of harm. It is an endless stream of bile. Apparently, she had an exciting ride as a Trump supporter. One lifelong friend I knew as a child reported her mother was exhausted from my mother’s constant political ranting. Finally, she pissed my mother off in some imagined way. My mother stopped talking to her. My friend’s mom said to her daughter, “Well, at least I have two hours of my life back every day.”
My mom has had an endless stream of recycled friends. A few years ago, she came to the end of the line. Everyone is dead or too tired to go anymore rounds with her. According to my brother, even Trump was a terrible disappointment. She believed he would not leave the presidency. The voting results not withstanding.
Regularly, I have to re-adjudicate my decision to continue our separation. I made a file years ago of my mother’s crazy letters so I can remember why I’m not in touch. Her birthdays are the worst because I know one day she won’t be on the other end of that phone number. The fantasy will cease to have any possibility of reality. I’ve done all I can do with her in this lifetime. I’m sorry, mom. Happy birthday.
Joceile
5.7.21
[Portrait of my mother. Circa 1980]
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