The first memory any child has is of their mother. They are all clichés, you know, scrapping the knee and mom comes and kisses it better or the outreached arms of a mother while you take your first steps toward her; all memories that are normal to the average person because mothers are the safety net for most people in America.
As we know, for me, that isn’t the case.
However, that doesn’t mean that I do not have similar memories, of my mother. To make it crystal clear, my father was my safety net, but my mother was around while I was a child. I became so angry, bitter, and full of malice toward her that any memory I had inside my amygdala I hid and it and repressed the memories. Memories became top-secret files that were inaccessible to anyone, including me.
But times they are a changing.
As you may or may not know, I am in the process of change. I’m trying to see things through a wide view of multiple perspectives before I jump into conclusions and move forward. With this type of process, I am beginning to understand that I, myself, cannot move on and change unless I learn to forgive and forget. Case in point, I have to swallow my pride and try and start of relationship with mother.
It’s hard because for so long I thought I never needed her. I thought that I could live my life and never wonder about her. I soon found out that was wrong. I’m finding out that I am more like her than I am my father. I feel her in the way I say words. I feel her in my facial expressions. I feel her when I call my little sister “Gertrude”. Then the repressed memories open up and I remember times that we didn’t hate each other.
I remember her rushing me to the hospital, at age four, for a possible concussion in Junie’s truck. The whole time she was rocking me begging me not to go to sleep until we get to the hospital. I remember the love that shown through her concern.
I remember the only time I ever danced, with my mother, at her cousin’s wedding. I stood tall enough to look her into her eyes. I was in the process of growing into a man and I could see the memories replay, in her mind, through the twinkle in her eyes that night. It felt like a right of passage to be able to dance with her that night.
It was the only time we ever danced together.
It was the only time I remember her smile.
It may be the only time I ever see her smile at me again.
But I also remember repressed lonely moments caused by her. I remember her locking me in a bedroom while she played dress up with her homosexual cousin. I was stuck in a dark room, alone, while she teased hair, primped, and had her cousin lip sync to Patsy Cline songs. She made me feel unwanted and non-important. She made me feel that a queer was more important that to spend time with a son the needed mommy time.
Most people associate the word mother to parent, a stronghold, or an important person. I associate the word to loneliness, nothingness, and nonexistence. That doesn’t mean I don’t want it to mean something important because I do. I wish I had my mother around, as an adolescent, because the trial and error method I used in relationships doesn’t work. A mother could have given me advice with women. That would have been helpful and appreciated.
I know I may never get the chance to get that motherly advice, but I want it believe it or not. I want to have a conversation, with my mother, and watch a twinkle flash across her pupils before she gave motherly advice. But I will never get that and I’m slowly learning the fact that she will never reach out to me.
But I know she reads these blogs. I also know that no matter how painful my blogs may have been previously for her to read, they were the truth and from the heart. I also know that she may not believe that I wish I could have one more dance with her. That one moment in time was ours and we shared it as if it was my wedding day and we were dance in celebration of it.
Then again, maybe I cling to that memory because it made me feel normal. I wasn’t a sociopath that can’t feel emotion. The only way I will know is if I reach out and try to have communication with my mother. Put away our pass transgressions and try to get to know each other.
Don’t misunderstand me; I don’t want to force my way, in her life. The damage that has been placed on her and me has been done and can’t be taken back, but if we can put away both our swords of prides then maybe we can get to know each other and understand each other as mother and son.
So now it’s your turn, mother. You can help me move forward in life or you can just say fuck him and a chance that you and I could share one more dance will be chalked up to foolish pride on my end.