Between The Squiggles

Day 3 of writing something-random-just-to-see-if-can-do-it-without-getting-conscious

I have a hard time talking to my mother. I used to think it was because of the resentment I had built up in my heart over the years, but that story feels too old now. All I manage with my mother are the usual pleasantries, nothing deeper. She’ll say things like, “You girls used to share so much.” And I think, Really? When? I used to harbor a lot of grudge for her growing up, not so much anymore. We forget our parents were growing up too, while raising us.

I think about my mother (and father too) every day. I may not feel inclined to speak to her, but it’s not like I do not think about her. Whether I manage to overcome this distance years from now, or only realize it after she passes — I know I’ll regret not doing it sooner.

I have so much time to connect with her, ask her questions, get to know her better, ask what made her angry about me, what made her not so angry about me, the number of times she felt lonely throughout her marriage, the number of times she felt lonely raising us, how many times we hurt her, and the number of times she just let it pass. But I do not do it.

A woman of so much caliber, but was married early, when she was probably just 18. All her life, all she did was serve my father, my sister and me. These days, she makes do by posting poems on Facebook, along with witty captions on photos she edits in that delightfully tacky, early-2000s vintage style. A grainy selfie with a sepia filter, sparkles added around the edges, and a caption like: “Age is just a number, but the drama is timeless.”

Half an hour ago, my sister walked into my room and handed me the phone —my mother was on the line. I made a face but took it, said hello. My sister must have sensed the mild annoyance in me because she took the phone right back and said, “Yeah okay, mom, she’s tired. She’ll talk to you later.”

So many children don’t grow up emotionally connected to their parents, but some manage to build that connection later in life as adults with their parents. I’m open to that idea. My question, however, is – we talk so much about falling out of love in romantic relationships … why do we never talk about falling out of love with our parents?

I remember watching this movie once. A woman had run away from home when she was young and never visited her parents again. She sent her kids to see them, but she herself never went. You’d fine her clutching her necklace and pacing back and forth just at the mere idea of going back to reconcile with her parents. Everyone had assumed it’s because her parents had never forgiven her. But years later, after they died, she confessed: It wasn’t that they didn’t forgive her, she never forgave herself.

The point I’m trying to make is this: I believe, at least for me, reconnecting with your parents as an adult depends, in large part, on how much of your own pain you’ve worked through. And a lot of that pain, ironically, comes from them. If you haven’t healed those wounds, the door stays shut. And if I’m being honest, I don’t think I’ve reached that point yet.

And I know I am running out of time.

When my sister told my mother she can speak to me another day, my mother said, “Oh.”

I don’t know why I didn’t do it. I could’ve asked for the phone back from my sister. I could’ve spoken a few more words with my mother. I could’ve spoken for just a minute. Just a minute. Just a fucking minute.