2016

 I went to visit mother in the summer of 2016. She wasn’t doing well physically, and I was scared about the state of her health. It was a shock to see her. She had always been a plush woman, but the woman standing before me in the airport terminal appeared to be skin and bones. Her hair was thinner, her face gaunt, and many pounds were missing from her frame. This wasn’t the mother I last saw. It frightened me. 

She had recently moved into her own apartment, kicking my sister out and moving into a small ground-level complex for elderly and disabled persons. Upon arriving, one of the first things she pointed out was a sign on her wall that said, “As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.” I remember her saying to me, “If you aren’t serving the Lord, you can’t stay here.” I was astonished. Speechless. Did she not know me? I had gone to church since I was little. I had gone to church when she stopped going. I walked to church when she slept in. I walked to church on Wednesday nights so I could go to youth group. I had gone to church camp. I spent years in college on the phone with her, begging her to go back to church. I loved Jesus. Did she not know me?

It would be months later that I would tell her she did not get to be a part of my walk with the Lord. She would try to tell me things that I already knew. She would try to ‘teach’ me things. She would try to preach to me. For years, church had been my safe place. Home was tumultuous. I was bullied at school. Church seemed to be the only place I was not yelled at or hit or called names or made fun of. It was the only place I didn’t wish to escape from. So for mother to try to come into that, to share it with me, raised my red flags. As a child, when I came back from church camp, there were no discussions that I can recall about what God did there. I didn’t see her praying or reading her Bible. It didn’t feel safe to let this woman who had been so toxic in to my safe place. I remember when I told her this on the phone, she hung up on me. She’s hung up on me a lot over the years. 

During my visit that summer, we went to the library’s painting event. We painted a beach scene, and decided to each add a footprint to the other’s canvas. Everything was going great and I was enjoying the painting when she stated she wanted to add a scripture verse to the painting. I didn’t feel it was necessary to add a scripture verse, but she wanted to. So, I said I’d add my favorite verse, too. She wasn’t happy with that, but allowed it anyway. I still have that canvas, though I’m not sure why. Now and then I’m tempted to take a knife to it. 

We went to the funeral home. She can’t afford a burial, but I wasn’t sure what I believed about cremation. So we went to the funeral home. It was weird, talking about death plans with the funeral home director and my mother. She didn’t seem scared, though. She seemed fine with it all. I was anything but fine. 

When I was little, I’d often sleep on the floor in her bedroom, especially when I was too scared to sleep in my own room. I’d take my bedding and lay on the floor next to her bed. She couldn’t tolerate having me in her bed with her, so it was the floor. While visiting her, I got an idea to write a poem about it. I wanted to print it on nice paper and put it in a frame. We went to Walmart so I could get what I needed. She got things, too. She insisted she make me one, and she also insisted there be cross stickers on hers. I was frustrated, as I felt that my poem had nothing to do with religion, and it was fine to not have any crosses or things of the like on it. But she insisted. What was meant to be a gift for her turned into her making it all about, well, her. I don’t even think she hung my poem in her house. 

She never wanted to pray before meals, not that we ever did before. But, she’d insist that I pray. So, I did. At church (she insisted I go to her church, not the church I grew up in), she wanted to take a picture together at bible study and in the sanctuary. So, we did. I hate those pictures. They seem fake to me. She never nurtured in me a relationship with Christ, nor did she model one for me. It wasn’t something we shared as I grew up. It was mine. I remember times she would call me, “Miss holier than thou,” when I was a teenager. A relationship with Christ wasn’t something we shared. It wasn’t something I felt I could share that summer, either. It didn’t feel safe to share. Perhaps that’s what abuse does. It takes away any safety there could be. 

I was pretty emotional during that trip. I thought my mother was dying, and it wasn’t something I thought I was ready for. I remember she took me to one of her counseling sessions, though I don’t remember why. I’m still not even sure what I think about that. 

That trip was awful in other ways, too. As I said, I was pretty emotional. She had already had time to process the changes in her body and health, while I was still in shock. I was scared. One day, she wanted to take me to a special place and get ice cream. I was looking forward to it. But my emotions hit and she left. I don’t remember what she was upset about, nor what I was upset about, but she left. She left me, still in tears. When she came back, I learned she had gone to get ice cream, and we weren’t going anywhere anymore. I was sad, angry, upset. I felt I had ruined it. Another time, we were working on a craft and she got upset and put it all away. Again, I felt I had ruined it. I’ve always felt responsible for her emotions. It was my job to keep her happy. It was my fault when she was upset, because I must have done something wrong to cause it. I was responsible for her emotions. And that belief made me feel I had ruined it. The truth is that my mother has never been able to be with me in my emotions. She isn’t capable of handling my feelings or emotions. She hasn’t been able to walk with me through them, creating safety and a sense of well-being. No, even as a small child, I have been like a ship in stormy waters, tossed to and fro, with no anchor. I’d been left to navigate my difficult, big emotions all on my own. And this visit was no different. 

When I was in high school, she and I got into a big fight. I was crying and upset. She was upset. She left. I was so enraged that she left. I remember going to my room and laying on the floor, crying and screaming because I was so enraged. My sister called to tell on me. Mother wanted to speak to me, so I got on the phone. I’ll never forget her words to me, “If I hear you’ve screamed one more time, you’ll get it when I get home.” Angry and not knowing what to do, I went back to my room, found a paper clip, unwound it, and used it to scratch my arm. I had never hurt myself before. But it seemed my only option in that moment. If I couldn’t scream my anger out, I’d hurt it out of me. 

One night during that summer visit, I again was upset and crying when we went to bed. She told me to be quiet, but the tears would not stop. I was sobbing for I don’t remember what reason. But I couldn’t quiet them. She got up to leave the room without saying anything. I asked where she was going. She said she was going to go sit in the car. It was because I couldn’t stop crying. Once again, she was going to leave me. She was going to leave me in my big, scary emotions because she could not handle them. She was incapable of being with me in them, of helping me through them. I begged her not to leave, and told her I would be quiet. I stifled my sobs as best I could, my whole body shaking with each one. Finally, eventually, sleep came to me. 

It’s no wonder, then, that for years when I was out of the house, both during college and after I’d moved away, I’d want to hurt myself every time a call with mother ended. She’d often say, “Well, I’m going to go now,” or something like that. But every time, I still needed her. I needed something from her. Some validation of what I had just shared with her. Some acknowledgement of how I was feeling. But, I got nothing. She could not handle my emotions. When I learned my beloved university was closing during my second year of college, the first person I called to tell was mother. I’ll never forget talking to her as I walked down Rudisill Blvd toward campus, telling her that my school was closing. I expected sympathy, but what I got was an agitated and angry, “Well, I guess you’ll have to quit school then and come home.” There would be no salve for that wound. 

The visit in the summer of ‘16 was awful, to say the least. I’d not want to repeat it for anything in the world. With all I’ve just written, I’m sure there’s more I’m leaving out. It’s now 2023, and she’s still alive. She’s been to many doctors and nothing is wrong with her. It seems to be psychosomatic. If you want to know my theory, it is this: she has endured and taken part in so many awful things, such as my abuse and abuse from my father, and she cannot deal with it. She cannot face her part in allowing things, bad things, to happen to me. She is trying to suppress it, but it is coming out as illnesses. Maybe this isn’t what’s happening, but maybe it is. Whatever the case, she’s still alive. She’s not sick. She’s not dying. At least not yet. But I can’t be in relationship with her.