First Words with Dad

Mothers, please strive to love your children. The first memory I have of my father and I talking is from when I was three-years-old. My mother had just tried to get me, a burn victim, to wash the dinner dishes in scalding hot water. I had older brothers, but not much older. Mom had three children in less than three years, the first two being sons she adored. Since I was the girl, she expected I'd take over household chores, even at this tender age. In my memory I'm standing on a stool at the sink. Dirty dishes piled on my left, two tall pots of water in the sink in front of me, one piled with suds, and a space on the counter cleared for drying. I'm crying because the water is too hot, making my arms burn and they're turning bright red all the way up to my armpits. I asked Mom if she could please cool the water down for me, but in my young mind it seemed like she didn't understand me, making me cry harder in frustration. Dad entered the room, asked what was going on. I'm pretty sure I was blubbering, but when I told him the water was too hot he seemed to understand. Yet I was uneasy when he insisted that I get down off the stool. I asked him for another task. I had the sense I needed to make myself "useful." He told me to sit in the corner and read a book while he took Mom into the bedroom where they had a talk. She was angry when she came out of the room. Dad was quiet. He sat in a chair in the living room, I was still trying to read that book, but was too upset and probably too young. I approached him and asked him while I cried; "Why doesn't she love me?" I never felt her love. He tried, but failed to assure me that she loved me. I asked what I could,do to earn her love and he told me I'd better stay out of her hair as much as I could. I took to staying outside after breakfast until Dad came home from work in the afternoon, although I'd come in for lunch and eat with Grandpa. I became quite a lonely girl in spite of having siblings, two parents, a grandfather and an uncle at home. Later I learned Dad had forbidden Mom to discipline me. It was only a few years ago when I was fifty that Mom called me on the telephone; "We had to buy a dishwasher because you wouldn't wash the dishes." The memory came flooding back, overwhelming me with sadness. After all these years it seems she still thinks it's appropriate to make a three-year-old do the dishes in scalding hot water. I am blessed to have had my father's love. He wasn't altogether effective as a parent, but I know he loved me.

Let Mom Believe I Sold Drugs

More than twenty years ago, I was a single mother with two teenage children. I was taking classes at night and working all day in an effort to change my career. I had a boyfriend whose brother had given him a Cadillac. We both struggled with money. I lived in a compound of sorts, a not-so-cheap group of ramshackle rentals alongside a backroad just a few miles from town.

In this compound lived another family. A mother, father and son. The son had issues with growth and so was very small for his age, although growth hormones were starting to help. This mother seemed to resent me for a variety of reasons, even outright telling me she had trouble accepting that my son was of a normal-to-large stature, while hers was not.

One afternoon, her son loaded a BB gun with foxtails and shot my son in the back. I was beside myself picking all the little pieces out of my son's skin where they had become embedded. I became angry and wanted to let this mother know how upset I was, but remembered she seemed mentally unstable and so I chose not to involve the sheriff. Instead I called our landlady and asked her to mediate in a discussion.

We scheduled a time we could all get together, and during the discussion I was allowed to express my concerns first. I was grateful to have the chance, and being as calm as a mother can possibly makes themselves when their son's been shot, I stated my case.

I was astonished to see how the tables were turned; Sharon pointed at me and very loudly accused me of being a drug dealer! What could have brought her to this conclusion? My boyfriend's Cadillac and his jewish-afro hairstyle.

"How could you think such a thing?" I asked

"Because it's true. You're drug dealers." she said.

I turned my eyes to the landlady, who was shaking her head in disgust. I felt mortified when she expressed the same opinion. I left the meeting abruptly and sought to calm myself.

Later that day, I had business of some kind close to my mom's house. I stopped in for a visit.

She asked me what I was upset about, and I told her about the shooting, the meeting, everything.

She shook her head and pointed that finger of hers at me. "Aha! So, you sold drugs!"

Remembering how the doctor had warned her about the strong possibility she was going to become deaf, I raised my voice and denied that I'd said that which she thought she heard. I'll deny something once, but never more than that— It's been my experience that people who seek to deny something repeatedly are often the most guilty.

Even after my strong denial she still believed I'd told her I was a drug dealer. Shaken and sad, I drove home and sought comfort alone.

Years later, I'm still seing my mom on a regular basis, visits, rides to the doctor/pharmacy, a few lunches and holidays. I'd call her to see what was new. One day she's shaking that finger at me again; "You told me you were selling drugs."

"What? NO I didn't tell you that." I said, and as I tried to explain what I'd said all those years ago she interrupted me.

Shaking that finger of hers, she said "You..." That finger was always supposed to make me feel guilty.

It's very frustrating to try to change her mind. She wants to believe her daughter is a drug dealer it seems. Saddened again, this time the sadness is something I can't shake. I had other health issues arising and it seems the combination of concerns nearly took me over the edge. I thought one morning, when the chronic pain in my back would leave, and what I could do to hasten it. Suddenly, jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge seemed like a reasonable option. I just about slapped myself. Thinking "NO, no, no! Don't think about that." I managed to put that alarming thought out of my mind. But I still needed an out. Being the clever monkey that I am, I quickly resolved that if I were to commit suicide, I would do so by driving my car into my studio and closing the doors behind me. Suffocation seemed doable. Then I went to work.

I missed a few days of work due to my pain condition every month, and pretty much thought about suicide at least weekly for at least a year. It was strange to think that the idea of suicide was enough of a comfort to me that I could go to work almost every day, being afraid to be left alone with myself.

I sought help for the pain; the stabbing in my back. I met up with an effective psychologist who specialized in chronic pain conditions, but he died suddenly. I had prescriptions for muscle relaxers and pain killers. In spite of all the help, I had trouble thinking straight. I lost my job. I lean on my husband for probably more help than should be allowed. I try my best. Sometimes my best isn't up to much.

Mom has since been placed in an assisted living facility near her home. Her eldest son, who's never left home, found she was too difficult for him to care for. My condition made it impossible for me to help. It was found I had a subluxated rib, a 35° twist in my upper torso from scoliosis and inner adhesions from the burn I sustained when I was two years old, unsupervised, and pulled a pot of boiling water off of the stove. 3rd° burns covered the front of my torso for a long time, but eventually the scars shrank as I grew, leaving behind painful adhesions. The traces that remain are stubborn and tough keloids on my throat, and right shoulder. It was also found that I have celiac disease. That stabbing in my back seemed to subside pretty quickly once I went on a gluten-free diet. One day they teamed up and confronted me with the possibility that I could spend more time with her, giving him a reprieve. Oh the look on their faces when I told them it wasn't possible, that I was too injured...

I've visited her a few times in the last year. Nowhere near the amount of visits a dutiful daughter would have paid. She speaks to me about what a disappointment her son turned out to be, how she'd been Shang-haid on her way home from the hospital by him and left there. I can't say our visits have been happy ones. Though I wish her peace.

I love her according to our bond. Her bonds with her sons are different. The eldest son, until all this happened, was her Sun and she was a flower. Her gaze was constantly upon his countenance. Satisfied he was worthy of her attentions, even though he didn't cut himself a path through life, whispering to him "They just don't understand you." when he was disappointed in a job situation, she never gave up hope that he'd become her hero. The bond with the youngest is one in which she is the Sun and he the flower. The middle son, the one with the traumatic brain injury from birth, is the most unusual. He does what she says, but doesn't like it. He acts this way because he's feeling trapped. He's never had to learn to do laundry, wash a dish, wipe up his pee, cook his meals or change his sheets. He'd need so much help if Mom was gone.

It seems Mom confided in my eldest brother about how I "told her I was selling drugs." She's effectively turned my brothers against me. How do I feel about this? It's okay if that's the way it must be, having little feelings of bonding to them. What could I do anyway? They seem to love my son, and I allow it because something tells me good will come to him from them somehow. My daughter? Little thought goes to her, as this is the family way, and daughters being not as worthy of love. The bonds I have with my brothers have always suffered with all the things Mom would say about me. I was an easy target as I was growing up. The "scapegoat."

What's interesting about being a 3/5 Martyr/Heretic in this case? My mother is also a 3/5 Martyr/Heretic. I can see she's been hurt too. She doesn't like women, she went hungry when she was little— all the food going first to her 7 brothers.

I'm grateful to be in a loving relationship, to have adult children who are warm and intelligent, and such good parents to my grandchildren, for all my loving friends, and a cozy home. As strange as it may sound, I'm grateful to have had these life experiences.

Who called the police?!

When I was a small child my mom would brush my hair. All mom's brush their children's hair, and that's a good thing, but my mom's method was downright painful! First of all, she'd start at the scalp with a very stiff bristled brush. She'd quickly force the brush downward through my long hair in a raking-like motion.

"Ow, ow, ow!! Mama, You're hurting me!

She'd reply with some comment that seemed as though she was telling me that beauty needed to be gotten through pain.

More brushing, then another "Ow, ow, ow!! Oh Mom, Can't you please stop?!"

Brush, brush brush; "Ow, ow, ow!"

She said "Why don't you scream louder so Nanny Fanning can hear?" Nanny Fanning lived two houses up the block from us.

I screamed louder, Mom laughed and the brushing got even rougher.

"Ow, Ow, Ow!! Nanny!! Call the sheriff!! Mama's hurting me!!"

Laughing now, she said "Oh you think the sheriff would take you away from me? The sheriff doesn't care about little girls getting their hair brushed."

Oof-dah, I actually believed her. I became jaded about law enforcement and remained so until I learned that Mom was wrong, the police really do care about the welfare of little girls, which happened when I was a young mother and lived next door to a retired police chief, for whom I grew to have enormous respect.

After all the rough hair brushing Mom would braid my hair so tight I couldn't close my eyes.

Here's my fantasy account of the hair brushing:

"Ow, ow, ow!! Mama, you're hurting me!"

"That's the price you must pay to be beautiful."

My sobs are heard by my usually deaf grandfather, who dials 911 to report another incident of abuse on my mother's part.

I hear a knock on the door just as Mom is making another pass with the stiff brush on my tender scalp.

"Ow, ow, ow..."

The front door is broken down and two deputies arrive to take the brush away from Mama. They pull her aside and talk to her about the tenderness of a little girl and how pain affects the way they feel about themselves and their mothers. Aha! Mom is led to understand, and I am from then on free of Mom's abuse and neglect.

Rambings of a Martyr/Heretic

In starting this blog, it's my intention to inform as much of humanity as I can about what works and what doesn't work. It seems I experience so much, and I want to tell people my experience so that they won't have to make the same mistakes.