I haven’t posted in a while. Really, there’s been nothing to tell on the baby-making front, except that no baby has been made. Sometimes I assume that my body is not capable of it and other times I chalk it up to timing or lack there-of. We are taking a casual approach. I have no desire to allow something that’s supposed to be fun to turn into hard work. He he he. Hard. Yep, I have the sense of humour of a 13 year old. So maybe yes to the hard, but no to the work, how’s that?
Outside of the nothing-to-tell-ness, there has been the usual wintery mood disorder. Seasonal Affective Disorder or SAD. Really – SAD. Because all of those crazy PhD-having mofos have nothing better to do with their time than come up with clever names for crazy. I know when spring is truly coming because I enjoy reading books more and the desire to write, in any capacity, returns. Through the cold months, I write mostly what I am paid to write, with occasional NaNoWriMo, if the mood allows.
Finally, I have had no overwhelming urge to communicate anything. Rather than blathering on just to fill space, I have allowed this blog to lapse. Apparently folks have still been reading my old posts, which is kinda nifty.
What’s changed? A message. From my mother. Looking back over my posts, I haven’t really talked about her at all. She’s what you’d call a touchy subject. I don’t actually call her mom or mother or anything approaching a parental nickname. I call her by her first name, which for the sake of this relatively anonymous blog I will say is Margaret. As in Margaret White.
Margaret and I haven’t spoken in more than a decade. When I was a teenager and my world was imploding, she kicked me out. But before that there was a lot of hitting and even more emotional manipulation – and considering how much hitting was going on, that’s a lot of manipulation. There was some extreme religiosity and a great deal of blind eye turning when some really horrible things were happening.
Half a lifetime after all of this comes a small message from good old Mags. Very small. Very timid. Nothing approaching an olive branch or an apology. Nothing to indicate any changes that might make it safe or healthy for me to respond.
“It’s like you have Stockholm Syndrome.” Says my love, a good and true and caring human being. I think about this. He is sure that my contemplation – my wondering whether I should respond at all – is proof of this.
I suppose this is partly true.
But to reject this small contact – it’s like embracing the title of Orphan. Admitting I come from nowhere good. It’s like deleting any hope that the good moments (and even the most damaged of us can usually recall a few) were an indication of the possibility of change. That Margaret could grow. That she could be “Mother.”
As an adult, I have empathy for her. She married young, had children young. Her resources were limited. She was, I’m sure, chemically imbalanced (as I am.)
“But you did something about it.” My love intones. “You fought it. You got help. You wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
It’s true. And yet I am reluctant to assume that it is because of some effort and determination on my part. I wonder whether – in the same circumstances -
But there the logic breaks down. I DID survive as a homeless teen, a group home teen, a lonely and destroyed person. I was obsessive about birth control. I knew that I wasn’t going to be a young mom. Until my husband and I decided to have a child, I had NEVER had unprotected sex. Even at my worst, I was aware that it was my responsibility to make sure I was not a parent before I was sane enough to do it without endangering my child’s well-being.
So do I embrace this title of Orphan and accept that my children will not know this woman who carried me and failed at raising me? Who sent me out into the world unprepared and punished me for the sins of others? I don’t know.