Mother as God

    It is 1:23 A.M. November 25th, 2023

     "Mother is the name for God on the lips and hearts of little children," originally written by William Makepeace Thackery in "Vanity Fair". I heard it quoted in "The Crow". This scene left an ever lasting mark on my mind and while I cannot remember the rest of the story in its entirety I know this part by heart. Brandon Lee goes on to show the mother to herself in a mirror. He wrings her arm, morphine dripping out from the injection site. Brandon's character goes on to say," Morphine is bad. Your daughter is out there on the streets waiting for you." I have been thinking about this scene all day. day being any time between waking up 9:30 A.M. and my getting ready to sleep in the next half an hour.

    My life was not always burdened by the darkness of addiction. When I was very young my mother and father built what seemed like a regular middle class life. My mother was an accountant or something to that effect, although she never finished college. My father was pursuing becoming a lawyer. They had a house built that we lived in from roughly the time I was born until everything went bad. She would plant her petunias purple, pink and white out in the flower bed. Summers consisted of open windows laying on my power puff girl blanket in the middle of the living room floor. Sinead O'Connor, The Chicks, The Gogos would float through the breeze as my mother cleaned. Well it was normal aside from the threats of being orphaned and being slapped across the face for being, well, a child. 

     my mother was confronted once about her drinking. A far away background noise for me personally. She tried sobriety once. She blamed my father for returning to the habit after leaving rehab. there where always excuses. What once was a far off sound came to the forefront as I began developing into a young woman. I would be in the basement on the computer on websites not suitable for children and what once was a survivor type of playlist became Blue October - Hate Me. 

    I didn't understand then the complexities of addiction, why she behaved in such a way but hindsight is twenty twenty. I was an early bloomer. My mother noticed triangles forming on my chest. We still showered together and one night after our shower she grabbed my boob and twisted it. I can't say I can accurately recall what she said but my brain always wants to think it was something along the lines of," You like that?" She continued to make comments and eventually told me I needed a trainer. She sent me with my dad to do this. Embarrassing. Upon our return she made sure I knew "not to advertise." I was in the third grade.

    She had cataracts and as they progressed I became her keeper. what once were happy trips to our local convenience store "Mr. G's" where I got Orange Crush in a glass bottle and a bag of Doritos became "Hey I can't see if cars are coming, can you come with me and tell me when it's clear so I don't crash?" We would spend hours up there. She was really into the drama. 

    The summer between third and fourth grade we moved into a condemned house. I found a needle in the basement. A fossilized frog. A large space of muddy area I assume was used to grow something not legal by previous tenants. This was around 2010 so it could have been anything. My mother could no longer see due to her cataracts lost her job. I believe she was working for herself anyways if I remember correctly. her alcoholism was already progressing before this point. I then became her therapist. She would tell me the horrific things that happened to her in life, all while doing and exposing me to horrific things. I would empathize with her. That empathy didn't go far except for her seeking more. More empathy, more trips to the hospital for various issues. Some imagined, possibly made up, I will never truly know. Although she has confessed to enjoying the morphine.

    While I gave her all of my care and all of my love, as a child does, I was never good enough. Actually I have always felt like a burden. Something that got in the way of what she loved. Alcohol. I was not worth the time when I received awards for art club (I actually had to walk to the bar to get a ride home after art club usually). not in playing tennis(she came to one game because I needed a ride). Not in the special and gifted program in the second grade. I was her therapist and keeper for about fifteen years of my life. Not even in graduating from college was I enough. She left half way through the ceremony. She "couldn't breath." I hate to sound callus but begging someone to quit smoking for twenty years of your life and watching them smoke while connected to an oxogen tank, it kind of hurts. I am not in a place of empathy or forgiveness right now, at least not for her.

    You see my mother was God to me. She could never do anything wrong. At least I didn't feel this way until I had my own daughter. I didn't really think this until I got sober/ clean myself and moved out after a few months of being clean. I didn't understand why the second I had a safe space for myself I got physically ill immediately, crying off and on for a month. I couldn't really pinpoint a reason. I didn't realize until I was in therapy and my family dynamic was compared to The Simpsons. Not until I reflect on my own child's lack of development during the first two years of her life while in my mother's care while I was in college trying to do better and make something happen for us.

    My mother was God to me and so breaking the connection, going no contact, has been difficult. It took multiple times to stick. I had to do it for myself. I had to do it for my daughter. The pain of her presence became greater than the lack of. I learned, after learning the pattern of lovers I pursue, that you cannot heal when you are in contact with the person who hurt you. 

    This unfortunately includes the person who birthed you. 

    This isn't to say mother should be perfect. I am not. I've fallen off the clean wagon a few times before I realized I was self medicating. I've had a short fuse and screamed at my child. I've offered a dog to my neighbors because it kept shitting on my bed(my fault). I've stole. The point isn't "Am I a shitty person?" although lack of a proper could be the reason. It's what am I willing to do to to pursue being better than I was yesterday. I am still responsible for that. apologies are nothing if you are just going to keep making the same decision. It's an accident the first time. Accepting you could be better is only the first step. My mother "accepts she is an alcoholic". That's where it ends. There is no self improvement.  That's where the beef is. I digress

    Remember you decide if you are a victim or a survivor. It's not whether or not you were hurt. It's what you do with the pain. Will you wallow in self pity? Will you also choose substances? Will you become the villain (sometimes unavoidable we're all going to be a villain to someone, but like what's at stake is it your own well being or are you just doing it to do it?)? Will you Write? Will you paint? Will you play an instrument? Will you do non profit work? Will you, as Black Flag said "Rise Above"?

     So no, when I speak of the pain of my adolescent years it is not because mommy didn't buy me a BMW. There was significant psychological damage spanning many years. I express it in my work artistically and am writing about it now for a few reasons. I think that culture starts at home. This is significant because I am not the only person who experienced this. I am not special. Nobody who experiences this is. Which is beautiful, It means none of us are alone. These patterns need to be broken on an individual level so society at large will benefit. The sooner more people see that they are not alone and that things actually can get better, the sooner this will happen. I also do it to express myself in a healthy way so that my daughter reaps the benefit of having a mother who is not inclined to self harm. I, existing to tell my story while clean, am the hope my work(Writing, photographic, integrative media) produces.