I had some running around to do. Pick up some groceries--things I can eat without teeth. I still canít understand this--someone I know said she knows someone who has dentures. But she said he doesnít wear them most of the time. And she said he eats everything without his dentures.
I canít imagine eating something like pizza with just my gums. Sounds strange, painful.
Anyway, then I had to mail out some bills. I made it home just in time to watch my mother pull into the driveway behind me.
She was her usual ďIím always right, nothing is wrongĒ self. She said she had a little time before an appointment, so she thought she would stop and see how I was doing.
I made some coffee, and sat with her and A at my kitchen table. We talked for a while, about nothing in particular. She filled me in on what her boyfriend is up to, and the email she got from my aunt and uncle, who live in Ohio.
Not the uncle who tried to rape me, the nice uncle.
Everything was all pleasant, light, surface talk. Then she asked me how I was feeling.
I told her Iím doing ok. My mouth doesnít hurt much. Iíve noticed that my jaw is sore. And the sutures are starting to fall out. But it seems that everything is healing nicely. Iíve had teeth pulled before, so I can tell that Iím not having any problems. Then I told her I see the surgeon tomorrow, for a follow up visit. To check everything.
My mother said that was great. She said she hoped that it wouldnít be long before I got my dentures. Yeah, me too. Then my mother asked me how therapy was going.
When I first told my mother I was in therapy, I made it clear to her that I didnít want to talk about why. Sheís asked a few times how itís going, which I guess is ok. But it seems that lately, when sheís asked, she kind of pauses, like Iím going to let her in on whatever she thinks my ďsecretĒ is.
I told her it was going fine. She asked if I was still going every week. I said yes. She said that was great, that I was sticking with it. Then she said something that made me kind of mad.
She said that she thinks itís helping me, and that she knows something about the things Iím trying to deal with in therapy.
What? Wait a minute.
Thatís what I wanted to say to her--wait a minute, what do you think you know. But instead, I just stared.
She had this big freaky grin on her face, like she was proud of herself. Like she had solved some kind of puzzle. Like she knew me inside and out. Like she knew about all of the pain I was going through, and she knew I was handling it. Like she knew the cause of all the pain Iíve been going through.
Like she could have told me what was wrong with me, and how to fix myself.
Maybe I got carried away imagining all of those things she was thinking. But she came off as smug, and the way she always comes off--like her opinion is the only right one, like she knows whatís best for me, like she knows the answers to all of my problems.
I really had to bite my tongue.
I am resolved to not telling her that I was raped. I think if I did, I would never hear the end of it. Maybe not in a negative way, but it would be just one more thing she could throw in my face any time she wanted. She does that.
She brings up the fact that I didnít use my GI bill. The fact that I didnít go to college. The fact that I didnít stay in the Navy for 20 years. The fact that I didnít ďthinkĒ more before I married D, because even back then I knew he drank too much. And the one she always loves to bring up--the fact that I was so ďmeanĒ to my little brother when we were growing up.
My brother and I fought. It was typical sibling stuff. He was 6 years younger than me. He was a pain. He was a scorch, a little stinker. Today weíre close. But she canít let go of that, for some reason.
So the last thing I want to do is tell her I was raped. I donít need reminders from her.
I did think for just a fleeting moment about telling her that some of my therapy dealt with her molesting me when I was 10. But God forbid I ever say anything that puts her in any kind of negative lighting.
So, I bit my tongue. I let it go. As hard as it was, I didnít say anything to carry that conversation any further. I paused for a moment, then I turned the conversation to the weather. Which is supposed to be beautiful this weekend--in the 80s.
It was awkward for a couple of minutes, but she didnít say any more about my therapy. Thankfully. Because if she had, I think I would have popped her one.
Honestly, I wouldnít have. But I would have wanted to.