My mother died January 25, 2015. I found out about my mother’s passing two weeks later when I received an email from the bank. I don’t know if I could ever verbalize the turmoil that went on, that still goes on, inside my head.
I had shed a tear for my father but I bawled over my mother’s death.
My mother had been in my life much more often than my father but it was volatile. My father’s abuse was obvious but my mother had me fooled. Don’t get me wrong, there were times when the abuse was self-evident but she was a masterful manipulator and could pull my strings with just a few words. She had me fight her battles for her, endure the wrath of my father for her, carry the blame for a multitude of the family’s sins and all while having me convinced she was the only one in the world who was on my side.
In short, my mother hurt me more than any other abuser in my life. I trusted her more and longer than anyone else and she, in turn, betrayed me at every chance. My realization of this fact was fairly new when I found out about my mother’s passing so I was still very angry with her at the time. I hadn’t had the years of dealing with our relationship the way I had with my father.
I loved my mother. When she was good...she came across as an awesome person. When she wasn’t good...she did things a mother should never do.
Betrayal is the one and only word that continuously comes to mind.
And all that anger? It’s still there. However, for the first time in my life it’s a good thing and here’s why.
Since the day I found out about my mother’s passing, I have been trying to romanticize her and our relationship. There’s this saying, “Don’t speak ill of the dead.” That’s nice and all but it was unfair in my case. To gloss over the things she did invalidated the decisions I made in order to deal with her.
Basically it came down to this, if my mom was so great then why did I end all contact with her? Why did I feel so much anger for her? Why wasn’t I there for her?
This thought process halted both my healing and grieving process.
I love my mom but she was a monster who, depending on what she needed from me, was either a charming human being or my worst, living nightmare. To have a relationship with her I had to purposely try to forget the things she had done to me. It wasn’t healthy then and it isn’t healthy now.
The fact is, I can still love my mom and be mad at her at the same time. Humans are complicated creatures that way. I can forgive those who have committed crimes against me but not wish to be around them. My mother and father’s family can be angry with me for doing what I had to do but the fact is, when a child is abused and the rest of the family refuses to get involved, they emotionally abandon that child.
And for those of us who have lost someone who was abusive to us - it’s okay to hate them a little for a little while. It’s okay that your memory of them isn’t as pleasant as others’ memories of them. It’s okay for an abusive person’s loved ones to be angry with us; it’s their stunted way of avoiding their grief or protecting their memory.
It’s also okay to still love them no matter what they did as long as we understand we must always love ourselves enough to stand up and say, “I do not deserve this,” and walk away.
And...It’s also not only okay but absolutely imperative that we remember them exactly as they were; not because we’re holding on to the pain but because we need to remember why we made the choices we made.
Now I can grieve my mother’s passing the way I should have a year ago.
Monday, January 25, 2016
Romancing the Tombstones (part 1)
Over a year ago my father passed away. Then two months later, my mother passed. Of course, I did not find out about my mother’s death until two weeks later when her bank contacted me. I thought it was one of those spam emails but it had too many details to ignore so I called them. Sure enough...while this woman on the other end of the line prattled on and on, my mind reeled with the realization that my mother had been gone from this earth for two weeks...
...and I didn’t know.
Finding out about her death in this way hindered my already-screwed-up grieving process. Everyone grieves in their own way but for those of us who have suffered at the hands of the deceased, it’s difficult and even more so when a cease fire had never been called.
When my father passed we hadn’t seen each other in over sixteen years and had rarely spoken. He had never shown remorse for the things he had done which ranged from raping me to telling everyone I was crazy (so they wouldn’t believe me when I told on him) to trying to convince me to kill myself.
In a way, I had already mourned my father’s passing in small increments ever since I realized he would never be any kind of a father to me. Still, when I received the phone call saying he was in the hospital and not expected to make it I struggled with whether or not to visit him.
My internal dialogue went something like this -
Why did I have to visit my dad?
Because it was the right thing to do.
Why is it considered the right thing to do? No one would ask the victim of rape to visit their rapist if he was on his death bed but because my rapist was my father there are special circumstances? No! He shouldn’t have raped me because he was my father. Because he was my father, he shouldn’t have lied about it thereby destroying any chance for me of having a relationship with anyone else in the family.
However, none of that matters now. He’s dying.
How did that change anything? The fact is, nothing changed with my father dying except he could no longer directly hurt me and he no longer had to endure me as his daughter.
Over the next few days I would read messages of support from those who were still in my father’s life and it was like taking a bullet each and every time. My father was not that man to me.
Why not? Why did I get the bad version of my father when everyone else seemed to get a good one?
The next morning, after a restless night, I woke up to a beautiful, sunny day. My Morning Glories were in full bloom and breath taking. I felt grateful for my husband and kids and dogs. I felt grateful for my simple life. Then I realized - at that moment in time - did any of it matter?
At the end of my father’s life what good did holding on to these thoughts do?
I had always told myself that I had already forgiven my father but in that moment I found myself asking God to forgive him. That was when I knew what it meant to truly forgive.
Now, other than the occasional visitation of an unwanted memory, I’m in a good place regarding my father.
This did not happen with my mother.
(to be continued...)
...and I didn’t know.
Finding out about her death in this way hindered my already-screwed-up grieving process. Everyone grieves in their own way but for those of us who have suffered at the hands of the deceased, it’s difficult and even more so when a cease fire had never been called.
When my father passed we hadn’t seen each other in over sixteen years and had rarely spoken. He had never shown remorse for the things he had done which ranged from raping me to telling everyone I was crazy (so they wouldn’t believe me when I told on him) to trying to convince me to kill myself.
In a way, I had already mourned my father’s passing in small increments ever since I realized he would never be any kind of a father to me. Still, when I received the phone call saying he was in the hospital and not expected to make it I struggled with whether or not to visit him.
My internal dialogue went something like this -
Why did I have to visit my dad?
Because it was the right thing to do.
Why is it considered the right thing to do? No one would ask the victim of rape to visit their rapist if he was on his death bed but because my rapist was my father there are special circumstances? No! He shouldn’t have raped me because he was my father. Because he was my father, he shouldn’t have lied about it thereby destroying any chance for me of having a relationship with anyone else in the family.
However, none of that matters now. He’s dying.
How did that change anything? The fact is, nothing changed with my father dying except he could no longer directly hurt me and he no longer had to endure me as his daughter.
Over the next few days I would read messages of support from those who were still in my father’s life and it was like taking a bullet each and every time. My father was not that man to me.
Why not? Why did I get the bad version of my father when everyone else seemed to get a good one?
The next morning, after a restless night, I woke up to a beautiful, sunny day. My Morning Glories were in full bloom and breath taking. I felt grateful for my husband and kids and dogs. I felt grateful for my simple life. Then I realized - at that moment in time - did any of it matter?
At the end of my father’s life what good did holding on to these thoughts do?
I had always told myself that I had already forgiven my father but in that moment I found myself asking God to forgive him. That was when I knew what it meant to truly forgive.
Now, other than the occasional visitation of an unwanted memory, I’m in a good place regarding my father.
This did not happen with my mother.
(to be continued...)
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