This Southern Faggot's Blog

She Called
September 22, 2010, 8:02 pm
Filed under: mom | Tags: , ,

She Called again. I have not heard from her since our lat conversation. I mean, I guess that goes without saying, of course I have not heard from her since we last talked.

What I mean is that, I have not heard from her in a while, a week or two maybe. I guess I don’t notice when I go weeks without talking to her, I only notice when I actually make the mistake of picking up the phone.

I dread her now sober phone calls more than her past drunken ones. Now she notices when I don’t return her “I love you”s. Now she will just keep repeating it until she squeezes those three, completely empty words from me.

I don’t love you. I used to, at least I thought I did, back when I didn’t understand. Back when my dad used to be able to hide all the small things he did for me, but let me believe that she did them. Back when he wanted nothing more, than for me to have a functioning mother.

Back when I used to make crafts and things for my parents in school. Actually, thinking back I only ever used to make things for my mother. It never even occurred to me to make things for my father. I don’t remember why, but looking back I am wondering if I knew that he cared for me, so I didn’t even feel like I had to bother. He was the one who was actually in my life, who would drive me places, take me out and try to explain to my what was happening when she was “out of it”.

There’s that fucking phrase, the one that I grew up hearing and never understood what it actually meant, but I defiantly understood what it meant for me. It means don’t talk to mommy, don’t listen to anything she says and for the love of fuck don’t let her drive or out of the house. Sometimes we would fail and we would find her somewhere in the neighborhood, in her underwear, trying to knock on peoples doors. Looking back, I have no idea how the fuck my dad and I ever made it.

But I want to go back and think more about the relationship between my mother, father and me, growing up.

On the phone, you keep telling me that the doctor says you are sane. You went and took the test and everything! You just keep letting me know that, you wear it like a gold star on your fucking chest. It is almost like that is all you need to convinve yourself that you are a fantastic person. A fucking fantastic (and functioning?) mother.

I am intentionally making this all difficult on my self, I know this. I could be done with her forever if I just let her think everything was alright. All I have to do to make her stop haunting me is let her think I forgive her and then we can go back to like we were before, pretending that everything is alright. All I have to do is forgive her for being completely absent for most of my childhood and life. Forgive her for making a kid try to tell their friends what is going on with their mother. Like that one time a friend of mine was over and we were watching a movie and you walked into my room in nothing but your off-white-from-pissing-the-bed-so-much underwear, mumbled something and walked back out.

But wait, let’s go back to the conversation we had today. In an attempt to make me forgive you, you fucking tell me about your alcoholic dad. You let me know that you know how hard it is to deal with an alcoholic parent, you have been there and you know how I feel. I am completely speech less, because I don’t know how that is supposed to make me feel any better. This actually just makes everything worse. Now you are now claiming to know exactly how you are making me feel and you did nothing about it. You know how shitty it is, but still all you want me to do is forgive you. You should have recognized the fucking signs, read the writing on the walls and realized that a box of wine every 2 nights is not okay.

Sometimes I think about letting you read the stuff I wrote as a kid. You know, when I started writing because I was finally able to name your sickness as alcoholism. But doing that would be opening up far, far more to you than I have ever in the past.

Talking to my mother is difficult, because I don’t know what I want to hear from her. I don’t want a sorry, because I am not sorry for how things turned out or how I was raised. I would not change any of it, ever, because I know that had a part in forming who I am today. I also don’t want a sorry, because a sorry won’t go back and comfort a 12 year old kid crying in the attic, or in the back yard, or down the street or in the woods. She wants me to be able to say “I want you to say/do A, B, C and D and then everything will be alright”, but I could never do that.

You need to understand that I am just figuring out how to deal with all of this. I can’t deal with you, because I have not dealt with this yet. Maybe someday, in 5 or 10 years, I will be able to sit down with you and we can figure something out.

But I would not recommend holding your breath.


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