My reflecting upon how I remember my interactions, with my mother, doesn't mean she was a bad person. The sad fact is she was just re-playing her childhood. Just as her mother had replayed hers while raising her children. Although I think it could be more aptly described as training. Raising by definition, actually implies caring for, and nurturing, so I think training is more accurate. In many ways, she did try to change the way she mothered me, from what she grew up with. I was only hit once or twice where as my grandmother resorted to physical violence often. And my grandmother’s mother and father resorted daily. Im sure if she could understand how her actions, or lack there of, made me feel, she would tell me that was never her intention. I know that it wasn’t. It never ceases to amaze me how the interpretation of someone else's actions, can be so detrimental and sometimes fatal. When I think about how many situations I have falsely interpreted, I am baffled at how often, it does not reflect the desire of the person sending the original message. I have tried to cover up these misinterpretations with addictions, and repeating painful, instinctive behaviors that don't serve me. It’s like a very dangerous game of telephone. Some messages are communicated well and are received the way they were intended. But so often these generational wounds are conveyed and absorbed sub-consciously, when the message was never really intended for me at all. Most often it’s just being spewed in my direction, when really in should be entering the ears of the person at the root of the problem. Being an especially sensitive being, I internalized most of the negative happenings in my childhood. I had no way of separating what was being transferred from my family’ s deep roots of fear and shame, and what I rightfully brought on myself. It was all I knew. As a young child, my mother took me to the library, and sang to me at night to help me fall asleep. What she was missing, was a genuine interest in me. Most often, I felt that she saw me more as a refection of herself instead of a separate being with a pure soul of my own. I think most of what she did was motivated by, and then reinforced by what she thought, other, people would think. For years I would purpose different ways of trying to get a deeper connection with her. Mostly by sharing what was happening in my life. Which was like trying to put out a fire with gasoline. The more I talked about myself the further away she seemed. I didn't realize this until I had been attempting this method for at least a decade.
I thought that maybe if I told her about my dancing and she didn't tell anyone (like I had asked) that maybe I could, trust her. Doubting myself as usual, I thought maybe my pervious subject matter just wasn't important enough. And clearly her daughter being a stripper would surly evoke some interest. That logic seems so incredibly backwards. Of course, she ended up telling my brother and my aunt. Once again I thought to myself, “what is wrong with me?, and “why can’t she be the mother I wanted”. What’s interesting to me is that I had a great relationship with her mother, my grandmother. Grandma was actually my safe haven during my early teenage years. When my parents fighting got to be too much, or my dads temper got out of control, I could walk to her house. Sometimes I’d go in the middle of the night saying Hail Mary’s the whole way, in hopes that I wouldn’t get attacked as I made my way down the street in the dark. My grandma was second generation, Italian. Sicilian. When I came over we would paint our nails, play piano, and she would section me grapefruit or make me fried potatoes. I always found the gap between my aunts and uncles experience of her, and mine to be sad and in some ways uncomfortable. I know my mom was intimidated by the bond I had with my grandma. She could listen to me. She did things for me that she knew I liked. I was so insecure at that time, I could never ever ask for what I wanted but she could always tell when I was hungry. She was available emotionally to me in a way my mother wasn't. The greatest thing about her, was her sense of humor. No matter what we said, we spoke the same language. She could see the way things just didn't make sense in the world. When someone did something she didn't like she would say “off with their heads!”. She had the best laugh. We would talk and laugh. She may not have ever rid herself of all her demons, but she went through a lot of therapy as a result of two nervous breakdowns, when her kids were little. She had seven. My mom was third in the birth order. Later on my grandma told me that she never wanted that many kids, but birth control was not an option. She was completely overwhelmed and her family was no help to her either. The difference between my mother and my grandma is that her defenses could be penetrated. Just like mine. My mothers defenses were like The Great Wall of China, they could be seen from space.
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