Being with what is

My mom, Anelda, 1960s. 

I have come to a place of peace in my life, despite circumstances. Or maybe because of circumstances. While our current reality is hard in many ways, it's not the hardest thing I've ever done.

I come to this place honestly—this place of peace and mindfulness, of relative comfort with uncertainty. Today I feel like writing a bit about my journey because I'm sad today—knowing this is a place I occasionally visit but don't stay.

Today is Mother's Day. 

I write this today for anyone who's ever felt alone. For those whose mothers are gone, for those who didn't have a mother figure in their lives, or for those with no children of their own.  

My mother left this mortal plane 20 years ago next week on May 19. While she had been ill for several years, she was maintaining and doing OK. We were getting into a new groove, as she'd recently moved into assisted living. So when I returned home from a morning run and got the call, I felt like I'd run into a wall. Hard. Not yet, it's too soon. 

In hindsight, I am proud of my mother for living as long as she did, despite dying at 64. The youngest of four children, she was unplanned—an accident—and felt unwanted throughout her life. When her oldest sister died at 48, my grandmother was inconsolable. My mother was never the same; now, she was also the recipient of my grandmother's spite.  

Family matters...  

Still in my formative years, with my aunt and grandfather gone, we moved into the family home to care for my grandmother, who was paralyzed on her left side from a stroke. She graciously died three years later, and despite an end to the misery, I found myself unhappy and alone. With mom working every day, and no adults around, I went from a well-mannered, thoughtful kid, to a rebellious, self-destructive teenager.  

My mom was a single mom when it wasn't socially accepted; my dad died when I was two, and I didn't know his family. My dad was the love of my mom's life, and I'm not sure that sentiment was returned. (By the way, today would also have been his birthday.)

My grandfather, Ben.
(mid-1920/30?)

During those earliest years, there were many family gatherings—no siblings, but grandparents, aunts, uncles, great aunts and uncles, first cousins, cousins of cousins, and cousins once and twice removed. Holidays and harvests and many family funerals—funerals which resulted in fewer and fewer family gatherings. 

From abandonment to independence 

So my friends became my family, for better or worse. I attracted those on the same destructive path. We were a generation with absent parents, latch-key kids. Hindsight being a brilliant teacher, I see the impacts, from an abandonment mindset that impacted my early marriage, to later self-reliance and fierce independence. 

We are both always, and never, alone

So today I write for those who feel alone. I understand. I felt alone for much of my life. I was alone for much of my life. I even made sure I was alone, unconsciously pushing away anyone who cared—just in case they planned to leave.    

I rarely feel alone now because I have learned to be here for myself, above all else. Because in the end, I'm all I've got, and I'm here for me. I spent my single years building my resilience, learning to love and care for myself.   

Now, I'm fortunate to be with a man who chose to grow with me, even with a rocky (and long-distance) start. We, too, have an important date this month: 24 years together on May 18. This wasn't a given. A therapist once said our wounds recognized each other. The odds were against us—to come together in a healthy, interdependent relationship was not expected nor even anticipated. And yet, what we created will endure, because (with help) we learned to care for ourselves so we can care for each other. 

We learn from our mothers, intentionally or not

I still miss my mom. Always. We didn't have the easiest relationship, and yet, we grew to appreciate each other. She did what she was able to given the resources she had, which were few. Throughout it all, it was always just the two of us... me and mom. I know she loved me. 

Growing up, I wanted a mother I could be proud of, and I am. I'm proud because she found a way to survive despite it all. She offered words of wisdom that, while seeming less than adequate as a kid, now serve me well, like trusting my instincts and using my better judgment. From her, I also learned resilience and determination. A therapist once asked if I was angry at her. I'm not, although I am sometimes sad. But mostly, I feel gratitude and compassion.  

To honor her, today and any day, I take care of myself, including giving myself grace. Because I know she wanted me to have a good life.

I write this today because we are each on a journey, and we do this alone. Finding our place and being OK with "alone" is essential. No matter who we have, or don't have, in our lives, we have to show up for ourselves. 

Life is a continual journey to grow and learn. Pain is part of it. But through it all, we get better, stronger, and more fully human. The more we accept ourselves and our path, the easier it becomes to change our minds, our beliefs, our experience, and ultimately our lives. 

As my mother said so frequently, this too shall pass. 



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Bittersweet: Mother's Day reflections

Yes, a mother's job is serious stuff, and a lot of hard, often thankless work. But being a mom, especially one from earlier generations before support groups and online forums, doesn't come with instructions, and not every woman is inherently good at it. 

First, I'm not a mother, unless you count cats or a brief foray into step-parenting 20-some years ago. Second, I'm not very sentimental about Mother's Day. Reading the history of mom's day makes me feel better about that. There's nothing like seeing 500 Facebook posts about people's moms to induce guilt.

I loved my mother.

She left this mortal coil on May 19, 14 years ago. And 14 years ago, we shared our last Mother's Day together. But she'd be one of the first to tell you it's a Hallmark holiday. Still, it was a lovely, sunny Sunday. She was feeling good and in good spirits. It was one of the few times she'd been back to the house, her childhood home, after moving to an assisted living apartment. Forrest's brother Clay and his family joined us for a backyard picnic. Just 64, mom's health was failing, but she'd been doing better lately and I thought there would be several more mom's days to come.

But just one week later, she was gone.

My mom and I had our challenges. She admitted one day not long before she died that she hadn't always been a good mother. I was a little surprised to hear her say that, so I asked what she meant. She didn't elaborate. But I knew. I also know she did her best. She didn't have a lot to work with. Her mom, my grandmother, was mean, and even meaner after a stroke. She was a martyr whose favorite tool was manipulation through guilt, and she treated my mom, her youngest, badly. Shit flows downhill, and I felt the brunt of that when, in her final years, we moved in to take care of her. Those were tough times for all of us.


I know my mom loved me. 


At least, she did to the best of her ability. There's an adage that says you can't truly love someone else until you love yourself, and my mom, for the most part, didn't like nor love herself. She spent most of her life fighting depression. And she did fight. From lots of self-medicating with the popular pills of the day, to a seven-year stint with a psychiatrist. She even took me to a session when we were having a particularly hard time. Mostly, she hid behind her weight, her caustic wit, TV, and cigarettes.

Co-dependent. 

That's a good word to describe our relationship. My earliest years were spent with my grandparents and an aunt while mom worked, but we'd always go home together. Just the two of us.

During those earlier years, we did things together. She was a good sport. She'd camp with my Girl Scout troop. She'd help me with badges, even if we did everything wrong (which we'd laugh about). She took me to see Fantasia. We went to ceramics classes. She made sure I had birthday parties and separate birthday and Christmas presents (I arrived just before Christmas). She fed me well and dressing me nicely was one way she showed she loved me. I honestly think she was both thrilled to have me in her life, and greatly burdened by me.

As a teen, she took in all my wayward friends, but at some point she abdicated any parental authority. She wanted what was best for me but didn't know how to guide me. She couldn't keep me safe. She especially didn't know how to deal with my hormones or emotions. My mom didn't have much love in her life, and though she and my dad were together only a short time, I believe she mourned him for the rest of her life.

My mother was social and loved family gatherings, but as family and friends died or slipped away, she became more reclusive and detached. From my earliest days, I remember her anger. She yelled. Slammed things. Threw things. Her frustration was easily triggered - a characteristic I adopted and only unlearned during my own self-analysis. I shared her anger, too, although I didn't realize this until a lifelong friend told me that as teens, she was afraid of my anger. That was a big a-ha for me.

I loved my mother. And I know she loved me.

And I'm not sentimental about Mother's Day.

By that last Mother's Day together, we'd largely made peace with each other, and ourselves. She once asked, "How'd you get so smart?" I told her I had good genes. My mom was wicked smart but had rare outlets to express it. Late in her life, she shared with me the dreams she'd had of doing something more. But fear, self-loathing and the responsibilities of being a single mom kept those dreams safely tucked away. Her fear spilled over on me; she discouraged my dreams, always suggesting the safe, familiar path.

Not everyone is fit to be a parent. I tried my best to be a step-mom. I didn't have a lot to work with. And my step-daughter triggered fears I didn't know I had. She came to live with her dad and me when she was 14. By 14, I had already cracked open the Pandora's box of drugs, sex and rock-and-roll. She was on a similar path, and it scared me. For her and for me. Step-parenting ushered in the end of my marriage - and drove me to see myself in a way I hadn't ever viewed myself previously. I had already done some inner work and made some changes, yet this was a real crossroads. I felt both proud and shamed by some of my own behavior.

Not all moms should be moms. I don't have children of my own, and I don't think that's just an accident. I put my mom through hell during my teen years. And, as she graciously owned, she wasn't a very good mom. I don't blame her. She didn't have anything to go on. From a young age, she shut herself off emotionally, did everything she could to protect herself from her own childhood pain.

Blood connections don't mean you owe each other anything. A friend is now caretaking her mom - a mom who's life was spent in festering resentment, never gaining emotional maturity, despite her advanced age. My friend is a compassionate woman; she left home at 16 for good reason, but she's doing what needs to be done, not because her mom earned her care, but because it's the right thing to do. And she's heartbroken, watching her mom suffer in her final days, still angry, resentful, and full of blame.

Yes, I miss my mom. 

I miss her humor and creativity, her insightful perceptions, her flashes of wisdom, her hugs. And I believe I was there for her in the best possible ways for both of us those last few years of her life. Her care was my priority; despite our continued challenges, I so badly wanted her to experience ease in those final years. She had done her best, given her circumstances. We had weathered a lot.

Despite it all, I didn't need a holiday - a day that began with good intentions (but even the founder was appalled at what it quickly became) - to do the right thing for my mom.

Not every mom knows how to be a mom. My mom tried, when she could. I'm grateful to her for much: she brought me into this world, she tried hard to do things differently with me, and she passed along some priceless gifts, in part, unwittingly. I honor her by doing things differently, still.

I applaud all those moms who made it through, do good jobs, and have wonderful relationships with their children. And I applaud those who were able to mend difficult relationships. And, I acknowledge all those who had a different experience.

Yes, I miss my mom. In many ways. But sometimes I just feel sadness when I think of her, and can't imagine anything else.

For me, as it is for many, Mother's Day is bittersweet.