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The Iron Curtain
May. 14th, 2004 10:15 amI'm trying to puzzle out something that my stepfather wrote to me in a recent e-mail. Apparently, my mother's all disappointed and disillusioned because nothing worked out the way she planned. Apparently, she had this ideal life scenario all worked out -- single parenthood wasn't part of it, of course, but she had one. That scenario mutated over time and the weight of my mother's ambitions fell on my shoulders. I didn't meet her expectations so now she's pissed.
Excuse me. What?
If single parenthood wasn't a part of the master plan, then why the hell'd she leave my father? Oh, I know -- she wasn't satisfied with her life; she wanted a job, and better things than Verdun, and a man who wasn't a misogynistic jerk. Failing to see why I should care that single parenthood wasn't what she had in mind. Being a latchkey child wasn't exactly what I had in mind either, but no one ever fucking well asked me. But then again, no one asked me if I was happy to move to Bumblefuck either ... or England, for that matter. These were things that made my mother happy, great, but it wasn't what I had in mind. The one time I said anything about it, I was basically told to suck it up, because Mummy needs a life too. Great; she has one, I don't. All I have is other people's expectations.
Speaking of ambitions, expectations and the rest of the crap, here's a news flash: I was not put on this earth to vindicate anybody. I am not the salvation of the Cullen/Rudick branch of my family tree. I am not any kind of poster child for the up-side of my mother's half-neglectful, half-overbearing style of parenting. I am Janet Lynn Neilson, a human being in my own right, and in charge of my own goddamn destiny. To suggest otherwise is completely out of line. And frankly, she can take her "I only want what's best for you" and stuff it with a long pole. What she wanted was what was best for her; fair enough. But to pretend that she really put me first when any major life decisions were made with me simply as an afterthought is galling and unfair.
She continuously accuses me of selective memory and perception when it comes to her parenting. She accuses me of only remembering the bad things and holding them against her. Not true. I can remember her reading me bedtime stories long after I could read on my own, just because it was one of the few times we had to spend together. I remember amusement parks when she'd go on rides she hated (and that made her sick) just because I loved them. I remember the stuffed animals she brought me back from every business trip, booking me my own hotel room at Christmas this year, and every other kindness she's ever shown me.
However, I also remember her smacking me with a lint brush until I was huddling into a corner, and then her telling me to stop crying. I remember spankings and smackings with a wooden spoon, and the slap I got when I had the temerity to speak to her when she was in a bad mood. I remember her throwing away some of my toys and breaking one of my records because I'd been bad (I think the infraction was overdue library books -- it usually was). There was the homework notebook my first two years in Bumblefuck; the humiliation of having to have my teachers write out their homework assignments and sign in validation (all I really learned that year was forgery). She's opened my mail more than once, and I know she read my diary at least once because she waited for me in my room the day after I'd had a bit of a vent about her and told me that I wasn't allowed to think or feel that way; that it wasn't fair to her.
I'm sorry, but I don't think amusement park rides and stuffed animals can be measured on quite the same scales as physical and emotional abuse. And while I could never say it to her, I should at least be able to admit it to myself; it was abuse. But the problem was, with a few notable exceptions, that was the attention I got. She used to threaten to send me to live with my dad, until she got a few promotions and raises -- then she changed the threat to boarding school. While she says she never meant it, it was that change in the threat, based on her changing bank balance, that convinced me that she did mean it. I'm not sure whether I kept being bad to get the attention, however unfavourable, or if I did it to goad her into making good on the threat of boarding school, just so I could get away. Probably the latter, at least in part -- it feels like I've spent forever trying to get away from her; by eschewing her values, by running away from home, by being the exact opposite of what she wanted me to be so she'd finally disown me ... by trying to end my life. It's not that I don't like life; it's that I just needed to get away.
Now I see why. It's finally been admitted that my mother's considerable hopes and expectations for the future were dumped on my shoulders. Given my mother's background (abusive alcoholic parents, two sisters with mental problems), those hopes and expectations are extremely big. Maybe it's no wonder that I buckled so often under the weight.
It's always been a war between my mother and me, I guess. While I'm absolutely sick of fighting her, I can't afford to stop. Otherwise, I'd wind up being a shadow of her, instead of a person in my own right. Well, at least it's a cold war now; I don't think I could stand any more of the fireworks of the early years.
Excuse me. What?
If single parenthood wasn't a part of the master plan, then why the hell'd she leave my father? Oh, I know -- she wasn't satisfied with her life; she wanted a job, and better things than Verdun, and a man who wasn't a misogynistic jerk. Failing to see why I should care that single parenthood wasn't what she had in mind. Being a latchkey child wasn't exactly what I had in mind either, but no one ever fucking well asked me. But then again, no one asked me if I was happy to move to Bumblefuck either ... or England, for that matter. These were things that made my mother happy, great, but it wasn't what I had in mind. The one time I said anything about it, I was basically told to suck it up, because Mummy needs a life too. Great; she has one, I don't. All I have is other people's expectations.
Speaking of ambitions, expectations and the rest of the crap, here's a news flash: I was not put on this earth to vindicate anybody. I am not the salvation of the Cullen/Rudick branch of my family tree. I am not any kind of poster child for the up-side of my mother's half-neglectful, half-overbearing style of parenting. I am Janet Lynn Neilson, a human being in my own right, and in charge of my own goddamn destiny. To suggest otherwise is completely out of line. And frankly, she can take her "I only want what's best for you" and stuff it with a long pole. What she wanted was what was best for her; fair enough. But to pretend that she really put me first when any major life decisions were made with me simply as an afterthought is galling and unfair.
She continuously accuses me of selective memory and perception when it comes to her parenting. She accuses me of only remembering the bad things and holding them against her. Not true. I can remember her reading me bedtime stories long after I could read on my own, just because it was one of the few times we had to spend together. I remember amusement parks when she'd go on rides she hated (and that made her sick) just because I loved them. I remember the stuffed animals she brought me back from every business trip, booking me my own hotel room at Christmas this year, and every other kindness she's ever shown me.
However, I also remember her smacking me with a lint brush until I was huddling into a corner, and then her telling me to stop crying. I remember spankings and smackings with a wooden spoon, and the slap I got when I had the temerity to speak to her when she was in a bad mood. I remember her throwing away some of my toys and breaking one of my records because I'd been bad (I think the infraction was overdue library books -- it usually was). There was the homework notebook my first two years in Bumblefuck; the humiliation of having to have my teachers write out their homework assignments and sign in validation (all I really learned that year was forgery). She's opened my mail more than once, and I know she read my diary at least once because she waited for me in my room the day after I'd had a bit of a vent about her and told me that I wasn't allowed to think or feel that way; that it wasn't fair to her.
I'm sorry, but I don't think amusement park rides and stuffed animals can be measured on quite the same scales as physical and emotional abuse. And while I could never say it to her, I should at least be able to admit it to myself; it was abuse. But the problem was, with a few notable exceptions, that was the attention I got. She used to threaten to send me to live with my dad, until she got a few promotions and raises -- then she changed the threat to boarding school. While she says she never meant it, it was that change in the threat, based on her changing bank balance, that convinced me that she did mean it. I'm not sure whether I kept being bad to get the attention, however unfavourable, or if I did it to goad her into making good on the threat of boarding school, just so I could get away. Probably the latter, at least in part -- it feels like I've spent forever trying to get away from her; by eschewing her values, by running away from home, by being the exact opposite of what she wanted me to be so she'd finally disown me ... by trying to end my life. It's not that I don't like life; it's that I just needed to get away.
Now I see why. It's finally been admitted that my mother's considerable hopes and expectations for the future were dumped on my shoulders. Given my mother's background (abusive alcoholic parents, two sisters with mental problems), those hopes and expectations are extremely big. Maybe it's no wonder that I buckled so often under the weight.
It's always been a war between my mother and me, I guess. While I'm absolutely sick of fighting her, I can't afford to stop. Otherwise, I'd wind up being a shadow of her, instead of a person in my own right. Well, at least it's a cold war now; I don't think I could stand any more of the fireworks of the early years.