Mother Envy

I need my mom.

Mom is not available. She is grieving the death of her best friend. Peg died last week after a long bout with cancer. I’m grieving her too. I’m mourning the loss of my mom as well.

Except she’s not dead. 

Tonight was therapy night. In its usual twisty and turn-y way, the conversation went from Peg’s death, to my therapist’s sooner-rather-than-later retirement, to my mother’s emotional abandonment of me.

I remember being hit—the white light that burst in my head as he popped me in the jaw. Yet, he always emphasized to me that he never hit me. So I must be mistaken, right? 

“He always said, ‘I never hit you,’ so when those memories came up, I thought they couldn’t possibly be true.”

“Have you remembered being hit before?”

“No, but he also said he never hit my mother, and I do remember hearing it. They would be fighting. My brother and I would be outside, not allowed to come in until the fight was over. We were cold and hungry and scared.” 

We’d often be outside for one to two hours while the fight raged on. Or at least it seemed that way. 

Then, we’d hear a loud crack, like someone was slapped. Then, quiet.

I’d want to run in, to protect her, but I knew what the punishment would be.

Sometimes I’d try to protect her from his insults. I’d say, “Don’t talk to my mom like that!” And, then he’d turn his anger on me. Mom never said, “Don’t talk to my daughter like that.” She’d withdraw, looking out the window and never speak to me about it.

No words of encouragement. None. No acknowledgment that I’d just stuck my neck out for her. I was ten years old. 

Ten years later, I was twenty and had finally told my mother that dad had sexually abused me. She didn’t know if she could believe that. Maybe I was confused. Hell, I was confused. She said, “If I thought that was happening, I would have taken you away from him.” Would she really?