Her being molested is irrelevant to what she did to me. I understand that.
Today itís all been taken out of that box I kept it in for so long, and beside being angry, it makes me sad. I think about my childhood, and wish I could remember what it was like before I was 10. I have very few memories of my life up to the age of 10, but I know that I was happy. Somehow, I just know.
Right now, I see my mother frequently. She stops in sometimes unannounced, and at other times when there is something going on and we have arranged a time for her to come over. But it hasnít always been this way.
We lived in California for about 7 years, and then in Colorado for about 7 years. She came out to California once, when A was born, and once in Colorado. So, in 14 years time, I only saw her twice. We talked more frequently, but thereís a huge difference between talking to her when sheís 3,000 miles away, and actually seeing her.
And for most of the time I lived in those 2 states, I didnít think about what my mother had done. It stayed inside that box that was taped shut. And it was easier to keep it in that box because for 3 years we didnít speak at all. We had a falling out, so to say. No calls, from either of us.
I was perfectly fine with that.
We moved back here in the year 2000. At first, our relationship was strained. It took a while of her calling before I would actually talk with her. And I remember the first time I saw her after we moved back here. It was like that box just popped open, like that memory inside was just a huge jack in the box. It took me a while, after she left that day, to stop thinking about what she did.
It took longer before I could look at her without wanting to be sick, or wanting to hurt her. Eventually, though, I stuffed that memory back into that box, and shoved it to the back of my mind again. Pretty much until I started therapy.
I remember when I was little, after she molested me, after she rejected me, how I would think of her. I would be laying in bed, or be in school. Or even working when I got older. And I would see her face. But her face was always the face of a monster. It wasnít the kind, comforting face that I know I saw before that day.
It was scary, seeing her face like that. At times I dreamed about her. Not necessarily about the molestation, just about her. In my dreams she always turned into this big, scary monster, who I couldnít get away from. I would wake up, and lay there crying. I canít put into words how lonely I felt, because I felt like I had absolutely no one.
Today, if I hear certain songs on the radio, I am reminded of those nights. When I would lay in bed listening to the radio, crying. One in particular--More Than a Feeling--Boston. Or--Donít Fear The Reaper--Blue Oyster Cult. That one did no good for me when I was depressed, but it gave me ideas, and not good ones.
Iím not confused about how I feel about her. Itís more like some kind of torn feeling. I have this insane sense of obligation to her because sheís my mother. And I hate that. Every time I get that sense, I absolutely hate feeling that way.
Because I donít believe I owe her anything, just because sheís my mother. It almost seems like she shouldnít be rewarded with being treated like a mother would be. Like a good mother would be.
Like she doesnít even deserve every thing good and wonderful about this world.
When I think like that, I sometimes think Iím being too harsh. But then I think about what she did. And sometimes, even now, I still see that monster when I think about her. Or get a phone call from her, or see her, or hear that Boston song. Even when I talk to Dr H about her. Those things always seem to bring out the monster that I see in her.
Tonight Iím still sad, but not as sad as last night. Sometimes I just think, what if? That image of me standing in front of my mirror after she left my room comes to mind. And I wonder, if she hadnít molested me, if she hadnít rejected me, would I have seen myself differently.
Would I have not had such horrible thoughts about my body, and my self, as being dirty and shameful. Would I have been a different teenager, maybe outgoing instead of so shy and introverted and scared. Would I have worn makeup, because I didnít use any until I was well out of high school. Would I have had a boyfriend.
I know thatís not a productive way of thinking. Itís just things Iíve always wondered. Every time Iíve thought about my mother molesting me, rejecting me, besides the pain, beyond the hurt, the anger, the hate, thereís always been that questioning of how I would have been different if it never happened.
I want so desperately to resolve what happened, to accept it and deal with it, so I can move on. Whether I stay in some kind of relationship with her or not. But not for her. For me.