It has been about ten years since the last time I saw my mother alive. A month or so later, she would suffer a stroke that would prove fatal within a week and she would take leave of this earth, waiting until after my father and sister had left her bedside for that fateful night.
Six months before she passed, I had begun to go back and forth to Florida, (from NJ), to take care of my parents' lives, both of them in early stages of dementia/Alzheimers, discovered on a purely innocent visit for Thanksgiving, which changed everything. I was designated their POA and Health Proxy, (I was the most responsible child), and now instead of my own life to reassemble, 15 months following the sudden death of my husband, I now had a whole nother life of two people to put in order, make decisions for and move forward. I decided to focus on the task at hand and come back to my life at a much later date.
Before my mother passed, if my father needed anything I would go down, be on hand for his health needs, but not for her. My older sister would feel more compelled to be there when anything happened with my mother health-wise, and I fully supported that decision, sometimes telling her she had to go because I was not. It wasn’t that I hated or held any animosity towards my mother, it was that I held two truths about her; she was never any kind of loving mother towards me, which proved very toxic, and I simply did not like her as a person. My mother hated her children, never showed any kind of affection or care towards us ever - no hugs, kisses, comfort, support, I love yous, best friends, nada. Just plenty of scourge for us, but that isn’t why I didn’t like her. She was a liar, the kind that tells lies so they do not look bad but when they get caught they blame someone else. Her whole life was based on lies. I never knew a mother’s love, didn’t miss what I didn’t know and was just respectful of the role of the mother instead of who was playing it and playing it very badly, I might add.
So it wasn’t any surprise that Mother’s Day was always so difficult. The right thing to do was acknowledge the day and so, like a dutiful child, I would go to the store to buy her a card, spending hours reading tons of cards that said “to my best friend”, nope, “the person who is always there for me”, nope, “the most important person in my life”, nope, “I love you with all of my heart”, nope. Sigh. I wanted to be honest and wrestled with all of these card sentiments that really didn’t say what I felt. I would eventually find a card with a pretty neutral greeting that I barely could stand behind and that whole process of being reminded of the mother I never had nor could even fathom would end. But the whole experience was pure angst from beginning to end.
I have looked back often and thought about all of the things that impacted me adversely at the abusive hands of my mother, but I saw in some of the harshest of things, I was thankful for what it made me. She made me depend on and take care of myself because as she would constantly tell me, no one was going to do it for me; No one was going to take care of me, I couldn’t depend on anyone else but myself, and I would have to do it all on my own. This not only terrified me but also forced me into a very strong drive and work ethic, never missing a day and working very hard, which became an extreme later on and another thing to work out of. Sigh.
I was also thankful that I never wanted to be like her so I made sure to always be honest with myself and with others; my word was my credibility and it had to be better than good. And of course, there was the impenetrable wall I built around myself and the inner stalwart determination to conquer my life as a result of the constant put-downs, berating, and being asked why I wasn’t like anyone else but me. This did serve me initially in a positive light but then proved to be the double-edged sword upon which I constantly impaled myself upon.
As I got older, the one thing that I did realize, was that I did not have or hold compassion; not for myself and not for anyone else. I had a very hard edge in which I toughed everything out and felt that everyone else should also; I had no patience nor empathy for what I would judge as weakness, pity, whining or complaining, or simply refusing to even try. As far as I was concerned, there was really no other option but to just do what it was you were crying about and move on - sans the crying of course.
But how do you show compassion in a barren field? I’ll be damned if I knew what compassion even felt like. But once again, as I struggled to understand and learn compassion, the universe brought me plenty of opportunities and after a while, it kind of seemed to me that you really couldn’t learn to be compassionate towards others, without finding it for yourself first.
And it was on. Years of challenges that would stop me cold, render me helpless, push me so far down the hole of despair that I gave up and came close to giving in. I had to learn that I was not invincible, that I just couldn’t “do it” all of the time, that I could not always depend on myself nor should I have to, and that as shameful and angry as I felt about myself, it was worse to only be able to crawl. And each time that I was humbled, knocked down from that high ledge I had perched myself upon, I softened, began to find some degree of kindness to afford myself, a hope I dared that ultimately I would be alright and that I could stand up once more, stronger and wiser. And the pity, yes that came as well but was kept short and quite contained, an allowance I gave myself briefly but never to fully entertain.
At some point along this rocky road, compassion found me and I finally embraced it; welcoming it in like the long closed-off part of my heart that it was. But, to my surprise, what came right along with it was an unconditional love, a love without judgment, a love heartfelt and supportive, a safe place to stop and be comforted and eventually, allowed to venture outward, a respite and a true haven for those I would be blessed to “cross paths with”.
For some time now, I have reconciled myself in the fact that I will never know a Mother’s love for her daughter. But I have come to know my own love, a great love, the mother in me, that cares for and feels the pain and struggles of all of us, every day, in the world in which we co-exist.
When we were younger, my older sister and I both recognized our lack of compassion and we would talk about it, how we felt about it. A few years ago, I revisited that topic with her and asked her if she thought I had compassion if I was a compassionate person. I am happy to report it was an immediate and emphatic Yes!
To all of you out there, this “Mother” genuinely loves you. Don’t be late for dinner.
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