The hunger for love is much more difficult to remove than the hunger for bread. -Mother Theresa
Kimmie and I lived with my mother after the divorce. Overwhelmingly, we knew we weren’t as important as we once were. Or maybe we never were important, and I didn’t figure it out when I was younger. I honestly believe my parents started out hopeful and wanting us. Now it seemed like my mother was living out the college years she gave up because she and my father eloped. Starry eyes blur when life’s shit hits the fan and the reality that you have to be a grown up with kids and bills hits. In my mind, my mother was struggling to recapture something she lost too soon, and my sister and I paid the price. If the type of person you choose is a direct reflection of how you feel about yourself, her self-esteem must have been in the toilet.
Men
One thing I remember clearly was the revolving door of men. Not that my mother dating was a bad thing; it was how many men seemed to come to the house and the quality–or lack thereof–in the men. Asshole, leering men with raging erections that came through the house to visit my mother. Skin- crawling, slimy, groping, disgusting pieces of shit that couldn’t wait to slobber on my mother who seemed more than willing.
There was Bob, the truck driver who took her on a road trip and stole her engagement ring that my father had given her, most of our camping gear, and our S&H Green Stamps. My mother saved those up to buy gifts at Christmas and other times during the year. They helped offset a very low income. Losing them seemed like a tragedy. We had a kitchen drawer designated for Green Stamps. They would come out of the store register, looking a lot like raffle tickets, based on how much money you spent and had a lick-and-stick backing. You could pick up the booklets to put the stamps in and the information on how many Green Stamps you needed to purchase different items. We always looked through the booklet to see what we wanted to get if we had enough stamps. It was like having a wish list and a jar of change and saving until you had enough. There was excitement in saving for something you couldn’t otherwise get with a normal paycheck. To a kid, it felt like free money.
Then there was the skinny, geeky guy with glasses and a white turtleneck who was particularly creepy and reminded me of a snake. My mother’s dating, partying, and the revolving door of men is nearly a two to three year blur.
There was alcohol and marijuana. I think I remember a party at our house where cocaine was being snorted, too. I distinctly recall the alcohol and pot the most. I knew I could get some if I wanted. There were no locks on doors back then.
The Joy of Sex
Our coffee table book wasn’t of far off places and scenes of exotic beaches. Nope. It was The Joy Of Sex. I didn’t realize how inappropriate it was for a six year old to show this off to others, so I did. People thought it was cute. I was fascinated by the pictures and positions and how sex worked from a mechanical standpoint. There was no mystery about sex for me.
With all the headaches I was getting and the retrospective realization that I was becoming parentified, I started waking up at night to check on Kimmie and ask my mother for aspirin for my headaches. My mother had no issue having sex on the couch or with her bedroom door open. I knew how long it would be before I could ask for an aspirin based on the sounds my mother was making.
I learned way too much, way too fast during my mother’s newly- divorced-and-finding-herself phase. It was terrifying and I felt alone. I was confused about the changes, about the divorce, and about feeling like Kimmie and I were getting in the way of the life my mother wanted. We were latchkey kids who often went next door to an awesome couple, Cindy and Dennis, who had just had their first baby. Cindy loved to cook, whereas my mother couldn’t stand it. I loved tasting whatever Cindy was making. As a kid you don’t realize what poverty is, or that you’re different from the other kids until you see something else. At this point, although we downgraded our house substantially, I was just beginning to understand.
The Battle of the Bulge
Not only did I not understand my sister’s anxiety or how to properly help her other than to just BE there, I also did not understand addiction or depression. My mother had mood swings like a tsunami and she cried often. She struggled with addiction to men, and to alcohol and pot to some degree, but her biggest addiction was to food. She always seemed to be battling her weight, and the smallest I ever remember her being was a size 12. Weight Watchers meetings were an on-again, off-again phenomenon as far back as I can remember. The fact that she despised cooking and wasn’t particularly good at it didn’t help her situation.
Our Saturday Routine
Every Saturday without fail we cleaned the house. I don’t mean a little cleaning. My mother was a cleaning Nazi. I hated having to clean. We rotated through chores each week. Cleaning the bathroom, kitchen, living room, bedrooms--all the while dusting and vacuuming. Before we were finished, she needed to check our work. If we didn’t do a good enough job, we had to start over. Each Saturday we did nothing until the house was spotless. Cleaning took a lot of grit.
We used Comet, spray cleaner, and a washcloth on every surface in the bathroom until it shined. Dusting was the worst because she made us take every knickknack off of every surface, clean everything, and put things back how they were. She was meticulous, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had actually put on white gloves. We each had chores that she rotated, and no one was allowed to do anything fun until the chores were done. As an adult, I can admit that there is no chore I don’t know how to do well and I wanted my children to leave my house knowing how to keep things clean, but not nearly in the way my mother did it. She was militant.
The San Francisco Treat Wasn’t Such a Treat
Typical meals for us were cereal, sandwiches, goulash, and Rice-A-Roni with hamburger, “The San Francisco Treat”! For those of you who aren’t familiar with goulash, it’s disgusting. Pasta, ground beef, and some sort of tomato sauce. Like spaghetti, you think, but no. Not at all. It was gross. However, it was a cheap, easy solution for dinner. Rice-A-Roni wasn’t much better. For those of you who aren’t familiar with it, it’s pre-flavored rice or pasta, basically adding dry chicken soup mix to rice and macaroni. I had Rice-A-Roni for the first time since childhood about eight years ago. It wasn’t as bad as I remembered, but I saw it as a cop-out for cooking. I’m all about making cooking easier, but I definitely will admit I have baggage with that San Francisco treat.
The Box
I knew we were struggling financially especially at Christmas. My mother was always more sad, more depressed during this holiday. Despite her depression, I would get excited about Christmas. I don’t know why. I was setting myself up for heartache. Over the years, there were Christmases when Kimmie and I would each have a box under the tree. The box was about 5” x 7” and had a picture and song on the top. This kind of box you didn’t have to wrap because the photo was the decoration. Mine had a picture of the star and three wise men on camels on their trek to find Jesus. The song that overlaid the picture was Silent Night, written in script. Inside the box were pictures cut out of a magazines of things my mother wanted to buy for us but she couldn’t afford. Her hope was to buy them for us at a later date. One year, there was a picture of a curling iron in my box. I know it was hard for her to give those boxes to us. It was also hard to see the box under the tree and open it.
The Church Lady
My mother was the youth group leader at church. I knew that was seriously fucked up, even as a little kid. The youth would come over to our house and smoke pot. They’d talk about sex and their problems. We went to a United Methodist Church at this time. There was a female, lesbian pastor and a black, gay pastor. There was tension in the community over both of them not being traditional pastors. Les was the black, gay pastor and I liked him a lot, but I remember feeling his struggle. People in the church made comments about him, and I know being black and homosexual and the leader of a church was a difficult position to hold in the community as well.
I’m not sure if their leadership had anything to do with my mother being the youth group leader, but it was still very liberal for the times. There never seemed to be any repercussions for my mother. Back in the 70’s, there appeared to be a general acceptance of a more laid back attitude. I also believe the kids in the youth group that came over to our home wanted to be there and wouldn’t have told anyone what happened while they were there.
The Abusive Men Cycle Emerges
My mother chose abusive men. I’m not certain that my father was physically abusive to her, but nearly every other man was. It’s hard to dissect domestic violence even as an adult. I don’t know why my mother made the choices she did and why she stayed. I do know there are common threads with victims, such as having a childhood filled with domestic abuse or child abuse, PTSD, insecurities, threats to the victim or victim’s family, isolation, or income security. Sometimes, the victim even feels responsible for the abuse, feeling she or he has done something to “deserve” it..
Some like the abuse, or use the drama as their own stage. Many have addiction battles, feel unlovable, or fear they actually are unlovable. The 70’s was a time when domestic battery was just being recognized and addressed. Not only was domestic abuse not a crime–there were actual ads that joked about beating your wife. The Detroit News ran an ad that said, “Have some fun. Beat your wife tonight. Then celebrate with some good food and drink with your friends. At your nearby BPA Fun Center, the bright modern lanes that give you air conditioning and open bowling all summer long. And if your wife beats you, remember that your BPA provides free lessons. Which is also part of the fun going on at your PBA Fun Center all summer long. Bowling’s a ball at your BPA Fun Center.” If you do a search for ads in the 70’s, you’ll most likely be surprised by what turns up. It was a very different time.
In domestic violence, the victim often hopes that it will get better. Moments of tenderness or vulnerability appear and the make up sex follows. Other victims feel that there is no way out. And still I don’t understand why my mother chose these men. We had family my mother could (and did) go to. We had support. I asked her to not date some of these horrific men because they scared me. She just laughed it off. My pleadings were ignored.
I felt like my mother’s therapist. It’s not a role I wanted or chose. It wasn’t healthy. Throughout her life, she’s regularly attended Weight Watchers, church, and therapy. She always seemed to be searching for the answer she wanted to hear, not the one that was necessarily correct. We can find anything if we look hard enough. There is justification possible in every decision. That doesn’t make things right, though.
The Sound of Music
My mother is insanely musically talented. She played the French Horn in high school and when she went to UCONN for college. She is a classically trained pianist and has the soprano voice of an angel. Her genre is classical. She can sing opera, although it’s not her perfect niche. Sometimes Kimmie and I would make fun of her when she sang a popular song because her voice had too much vibrato and too much training. She sounded better when she sang The Messiah than when she sang pop music.
I learned a love of all music from my mother. She was the choir director in church, and I sang when I got old enough. There were songs in other languages, traditional church music, and variations on popular hymns. Music was everywhere in our home, and it spoke to my soul. I loved all of it, from classical, secular, to popular music. I loved listening to her sing and play the piano or organ and watching her fingers fly when she was playing.
Becoming A Warrior Princess
I dread the thought of my mother reading this. She’s wanted to talk about the past with me before, and I have always been unwilling to do so. It’s a Pandora’s Box I’ve often thought should be better left alone. Those discussions could never be undone. And yet, here I am airing my dirty laundry for all to see while writing this book. My current relationship with my mother could be described as distant and tense. I like minimal contact with her because I’ve always felt more contact would open up the possibility of me feeling like her therapist again or perhaps learning more about her personal life than I’m comfortable with. When we do speak, I tend to keep things light and superficial.
I know I have similarities to my mother, which makes sense since she raised me. Our voices and intonations are identical and our love of music similar. I disliked these similarities for a long time, but eventually learned that I could appreciate the positive attributes from her.
Triumph with Love
Not everything I inherited from my mother was bad. Embrace the things you have that you love about a person and be thankful. My love of music is something I can’t imagine being without. It feels stitched into the fabric of who I am and will stay with me my entire life.
LEARN AND GROW
• I learned a love of music which fed my soul
• I learned that God looks different to people and I could choose my way