A Happy Home: Part 1 (Mother)
"My mother? Let me tell you about my mother."
My first memories of my mother are vague. I remember her as unhappy first, but as I grew beyond infancy it seemed that she stabilised. She was, for these first years, a good mother. She taught me manners, chores, kindness, and I have more happy memories than I thought I would. Themed birthday parties, bedtime stories, home cooked meals. Remembering that makes it seem impossible that she could have been anything other than a perfect mother.
But, she very much wasn't. What I wrote in my journal from those times makes that very clear. I didn't imagine it. I wasn't making it up.
I don't know when it began, simply that it got worse. But as I got older, my mother became colder, bitter, and vindictive. She would storm around the house in a huff, slamming doors, crashing whatever she held together, singing loudly in a high and disorganised tune, a signal to everyone present that she was unhappy and it was going to soon be your problem. Of course, what is a child of 6 or 7 going to do about the adult problems that bothered her, even if they had the capacity to understand them? At first, I had tried comforting her in different ways, but it didn't work. A hug for example seemed to her like an expression of my needs, rather than hers. It simply seemed to make her more resentful of me.
I didn't understand what I had done to make her so upset, as it seemed always, that as we were around each other almost constantly, that I would have to be the source of all her problems. Instead, I avoided her. I realised that the only choice was to wait it out. I would sit in my room, and occupy myself with reading or writing, and hopefully she would be done with her misery before I ran out of distractions.
It became clear, however, that I was an important part of her tantrums.
The door would open with a slam, and she would shout something like "Haven't I told you a hundred times?" or "You've done it again!"
The supposed offense I had committed had not been addressed once or twice, let alone if it was even real. I quickly learned that if something was wrong with the house, it would somehow wind up to being my fault. If I tried to correct the offense, like for example, making sure my room was tidy, it had to be perfect. There could be literally nothing wrong with it. If the clothes were not folded squarely on top of one another, if the spine of a single book on the shelf was out of line, if the bag that held my toys was not tied at the top properly, it was time for a 30 minute screaming match.
I was either 6 or 7 when she first threatened to give me away as an orphan. I tearfully begged her as she made a phone call to someone I now know was most likely not there. "I'll be good." I sobbed. "I'll do anything."
But there was nothing that I could do.
Her neuroticism was a law of the universe, as was my suffering. I remember after one fight she dragged me into the car to see prostitutes on the sidewalk, and told me she was going to give me away to live with them. She told me all the things that would be done to me, and what my life would be like. A young boy, probably not even 9 years old. I still do not truly understand what made her do such things. My sister hated me. She said Mum was always upset with me, that Mum and Dad were fighting always because of me. I won't go any further on that, as I feel it's a matter for another entry.
By 10 I was often thinking about running away from home. I would do almost anything to delay my inevitable return. I had no appetite, even with my ribs becoming increasingly pronounced. As the household business went under during the GFC, the mood in the house became even more intolerable. I took up volunteer after school activities, and even if they weren't on, stayed late until it was beginning to get dark or the local library was closing.
It continued like that for a very long time, even after she was diagnosed with cancer. It was almost a relief that she wasn't around, that she didn't have the energy to berate me. But she still found a way. In fact, we found out about her cancer because of her rage. When Dad made dinner, she would start a row and scream that he had put too much spice in. I would say I didn't think there was too much, my sister wouldn't say anything, and Dad would defend himself. Severe anaemia (which in this case was caused by cancer) can cause a cracked tongue, which makes spice quite painful. She wrote in large capital letters on the spice jar "ONE TEASPOON IS MORE THAN ENOUGH", which I think demonstrates her passive aggressive and outright aggressive nature nicely. She didn't care to verify that her experience might be incorrect, she jumped to hurling words and cutlery.
I don't know if I wish she had died.
Even if she had, nothing would have really changed. The damage was done to me, and I had found someone who actually loved me.
There is no grand ending to this. When I returned home from The Sticks, the fights returned too. I was falling apart at this point, and an adult, but the way she treated me was still cruel. I remember her taking the keys to my car so that I couldn't run away. "If you want them, you can come beg for them back from me."
I would frequently return to the house locked, with a note accusing me of something. It seemed that even if I wasn't there, she would find a way to continue her ways. She would hide food from the fridge, or even go as far as to rub raw chicken breast on my bread to stop me from using it for sandwhiches, before casting all of it out into the yard.
When we had what I can only describe as an intervention with the doctor, she denied that incident completely, as well as anything else I recalled. I am not sure if the chemotherapy fried her brain to the point where she didn't remember what she did to me growing up, or if she was so ashamed, she could not face them. It doesn't matter. I have realised long ago that I will never gain any kind of admission of guilt, nor would it bring any kind of closure.
When I visit them, they treat me nicely. But I see glimpses of it, flashes, before it is tucked back away beneath the sagging skin. That sadistic and vindictive tone on a single sentence, like a knife being flashed. But, she cannot torture me anymore. I live far away now, and I have the keys to my car. I can leave whenever I want.
I just can't leave what she did to me.