I moved recently, and in the flurry of purging paperwork, donating clothes, furniture, etc., I found a few old journals. From the late 1970's family road trip across Canada, to the diary I tried to keep within the last 5 years.
Sadly, I am a spotty writer, as this blog can attest.
Sometimes when I am caught up in the moment of drama, family dynamics and even occasionally euphoria and joy, I don't put pen to paper... or fingers to keyboard. I just continue sailing onward without documenting my experience.
I do this. For example, when this whole thing went down with my mother, I didn't immediately put pen to paper. I let the anger, the frustration and all that rest in my heart and soul for a few days. One of the things I've struggled with for decades is the fear of my anger... you see I have/had a temper when I was younger. A very. Bad. Temper. A temper that at one point saw me taking someone to the ground with my hands around their throat and if it hadn't been for someone pulling me off... well I really do shudder to think what could have happened.
In the introspection that followed years of therapy and reading of self-help books/tapes etc., I came to understand that after that particular incident I started stuffing my anger down. Follow it up with the death of my maternal grandfather who I loved so much and the little still photos and vignettes of my childhood that I do remember, and you have someone who stifled the anger. Afraid in case I hurt someone... afraid to show it because of repercussions from my Mother. Afraid to show people I wasn't in control. You see, in our house growing up, if you slammed a door... you were showing anger... and frequently I remember... I really remember... getting the strap, getting grounded... or worse getting spoken to by my Mother and when Mother got angry, everyone got their clocked cleaned. No one was immune except maybe my Father. I don't remember my Mother ever talking to her Mum or my grandfather like she did my brother and I, or even my Father.
Anger was bad. Since my anger could be blinding... could be called a rage at times, I sat with it, let it dissipate... relived what made me angry... in this case what happened with my Mum... that I waited 3 days before I write my "not for mailing" letter. This was the letter that every Counselor told me I should write... then read aloud... then burn. It would help get it out of my system. So I did it - I write the letter - and it turned out to be regular size font 12 and 12 pages long. I read it, reread it, and cut it down to a manageable length, which was the letter I actually sent to my Mother.
I'm falling back here so I'll follow the breadcrumbs back to topic. When all this purging was going on, one thing I did find were a bunch of journals. The road trip, the journal I began during my organized religion phase before, during and after baptism, and the sporadic writings I had over the next 25 years. I would always pick a beautiful journal, not a school, spiral bound book, but a 'nice' journal.
I had decided to shred them, but before that I decided to sit down and read some of them. Wow. I had forgotten some of the things that happened. Several times Mother and I had gone months without speaking for one reason or another. Then I would contact her for one reason or another... like misplaced loyalty (my current brain thinking)... and we'd get back into cycle again.
I say cycle because what was glaringly clear was her manipulation and abuse of my emotions. I'm not innocent - I have always tried to get my Mother's approval. Buy her affection way back when. Now my Mother had told me multiple times over so many years, that after being hassled by my Grandmother for 'raising me wrong' she handed me over to my Grandmother and then focused on bringing up my brother. She has told me this multiple times.... now I realize she was trying to hurt me... even if it was truth, it hurt. Don't get me wrong, I loved my Grandmother dearly, but telling me it was too much of a hassle to tell her to get lost... obviously I didn't matter. I remember clearly (in movie format almost) in the late 1980's when I was proudly wearing my first corset... it gave me an hourglass figure and with Dolly Parton and Mae West sporting the hourglass look, I was lovin' what it gave me. I arrived at her house, all excited and feeling beautiful and showed it to her. My posture was outstanding, the girls were perky, and I had a waist. A waist! Wow that was a big deal.
What I got was "you were not raised like that. That's disgusting." BOOM.
I took it off before I left and I didn't wear it again for years. I felt horrible, stupid, ugly and like I was 5 years old. That's what I think is emotional abuse... what I was told by my first Councillor.
Anyway, what I found by reading these old journals was the cycle of manipulation and abuse Mother and I went through. It would be fine for a while, then something would happen, she wouldn't get her way, she would act the Martyr, starting hurting, blaming, there would be silence and then I would contact her because I was worried, I was trying to be a good daughter, or I was telling her about a death in the family. Three times in the last decade alone - besides this last and final one. I didn't realize it was so... so... cyclical. One would think I mad masochistic tendencies... well maybe I do. After reading this I wonder.
Now when I drive past where she lives, I wonder how the dogs are; wonder what she's saying to people about me, about us. Wonder how she would react, and how I would feel if we crossed paths. I don't know why but I miss her. If she died I would be sad for what we could have had... same with my Father. Sad that we could have had a better relationship. Love isn't in me for either of them any more. There are times I am surprised I can love anyone, or anything. I know I don't love myself. It is not in me.
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