It's like stalking but less fun and more invisible...

So.... a year ago I was planning a wedding and my escape plan from my mother. I still can't figure out which one was more stressful... Lately, she's everywhere. Not physically. I don't think she will ever be that ballsy. I dream about her. I think about her. I question my decision to stay away from her. I hate her. I love her. I whine that it's not fair that I got the shitty mom while my brothers got the nice, sweet, sacrificing mom who thought the sun shined out their collective ass.

I've had a lot of people remind me these past 10 months that this woman I've walked away from, is my mother. I've never forgotten that. I've been told I need to forgive her. I need to get over it. I need to hear her half of the story. I don't want any of that. I've spent my life hearing her half of the story - she's the victim. My father was a drunk and a pot head, my first step father was physically violent (which I have no memory of - when he left in the back of a police car, with me standing in my Garfield jammies, I thought I had done something wrong. Especially because once he got inside that car, I was alone with one of my brothers and no grown ups were there. Safe.) and the following one was "The biggest mistake of [her] life". Her parents made her become a nurse when all she wanted was to be a music teacher. Everything was done to her so that no one would see what she was doing to the small girl behind her.

I continue to tell people, "yes. she is my mother and she should have known better than to treat a small child like she wasn't worthy of being loved." No one wants to hear that. I've even flipped it and asked them, what if this weren't my mother, but an abusive spouse? Would you want me to leave? Would you want me to take my son and run and find a safe place where this person couldn't find us? How the hell is this so different?

She's everywhere right now. I think the thing that bothers me the most is wondering what my life could have been had I been encouraged and loved and nurtured and cherished in the way that my brothers were. I think I would cut that bitch if I met her. Or I would be eaten up with jealousy to the point of insanity. I hate how filled with envy I am. I hate it because I would never, could never wish my childhood upon another child. And then I realize that my reasoning is that another child might not have been strong enough to handle it.

I am strong. If there were an emotional Iron Man competition, I would beat the living hell out of almost everyone I know. I would win. Granted, I don't even feel like I'm a strong person. I deal with the aftermath and fallout of my childhood on a daily basis. My go-to response when something happens is to apologize, blame myself for it, and privately tell myself that if I weren't alive, nothing like this would have happened. My anxiety levels are off the charts to the point where even discussing going out and finding a job throws me into panic attacks and crying spells. I can't sit with my back to an open room without having to focus on my breathing. I've walked out of a coffee house because my usual seat, in the corner armchair, was occupied. If I'm so strong, why the hell am I so scared???

I hear her voice in my head at night. Never saying anything, but always implying a dare. "I dare you, Sunshine. I dare you. Do it. " I stand each day on this precipice and always look down wondering if someday, I will finally do it. Just to shut that bitch up.

This is the story of a girl...

I've had an eating disorder since as far back as I can remember. I can't remember a time when food wasn't obsessed about in my household. I was called fat throughout my childhood by the kids at school and my family at home. My weight was something to be completely ashamed of. It always has been. By the time high school came, it was a source of immense pride that I was only eating once a day, if that. I was thrilled that my lower ribs were sticking out and looked forward to the day they would nearly all stick out. I denied it though. I pretended that the ribs sticking out were ugly, but I envied each and every other girl who were effortlessly thin and continued to eat my one meal a day. When I moved out and no longer had my mother's eating disorder fueling mine, I started eating again. Not much at first, but when I ended up in an abusive relationship, I began comfort eating and now I'm at the other end of the spectrum.

Last year I had a doctor send me to an "informational meeting" about gastric bypass. I was immediately against it, but I went because I was willing to hear what was going to be said. In that meeting, I was horrified to discover that as long as it is medically supervised, anorexia is apparently okay if you're overweight. I left that session fully aware that I would not be agreeing to more. Instead, it triggered a restart of my initial disorder. Lately, I have been fighting to just eat 2 meals a day. I went a full day without thinking once about eating and was shocked when I realized that I hadn't eaten at all. The worst part about it is that I'm being rewarded almost daily for my behavior. I'm down 20 lbs since last year and when I tell people that I hear that I'm fantastic and way to go and all those other celebratory things because when you're fat, it's not anorexia. It's getting your life back. It's finally showing respect for yourself and giving yourself a chance. Why can't they see that anorexia is anorexia regardless of your size. I honestly don't know how the hell this is going to get better when everyone, including doctors, thinks this is a spectacular idea. The only person complaining is Sara, and that's because she knows that it scares me. She knows I don't want to end up bony and bird-like with the same figure as my mother. I don't want a pacemaker like my mother's because I've eroded my heart from refusing to eat.

Not so quick update

To explain what happened to me as a child is difficult. I have fractured memories and bottles upon bottles of anger and hurt about them. When I was really little, it was easier. I was more pliable and I could worship my mother and believed she was the greatest thing in the world. Things took a turn though. I don’t remember exactly when that was. I don’t remember if it was a single moment in time or if it was gradual. I remember her last marriage ending and feeling responsible for it and becoming more resentful of her for it, but then I remember something that happened earlier for just a second and then it fades away into the mist. Did she start disliking me because I gained weight or was it because I was on the cusp of puberty and she didn’t like it? I honestly don’t know. I used to tell people that she and I were either far too different or far too alike to get along with one another, and maybe on some level that’s true, but not true enough to excuse what she did.

The best way to explain it is in the scraps of information I have from her childhood. She told me that she was responsible for her brothers and keeping them out of trouble or she would get in deep trouble herself and she told me that things, at several points in her young life, got so bad between her mother and herself that she nearly moved in with her aunt, my grandmother’s sister. That’s all I have to go on, but it’s enough to know that I am not the first daughter in my family to have been subjected to narcissistic abuse.When I came out a girl, I didn’t stand a chance at being cared for. I was a “fix it” baby, meaning my parents conceived me to fix their marriage. Neither of them will admit it, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that if they were divorced when I was barely a year old, there were major problems long before I stumbled along.

My early childhood was good. I had all the toys I wanted, within reason. I had two brothers that let me play with them, sometimes. I had a mom who would sing to me and let me sing with her. My infancy was not that good. My first memory is of shouting and crying and screaming all around me. My oldest brother hiding me behind this God awful ugly chair in the corner and kissing my forehead and then nothing. When I asked about it, I was rebuffed, repeatedly, until finally she told me that my father was beating my other brother and she was trying to stop it. Paul, the oldest, knew it was his job to make me safe and he did. When I asked why that was such a huge priority, I was told that my father had once hurled me across a room (as an infant) because I was crying. Honestly, it was a good call on her for making the decision to hide me. These memories and incidents are why I rarely drink. I will joke about it, but my father’s alcoholism is a huge deterrent in my drinking life. When they divorced, things got better. The only really bad memories I have of that brief time included my two trips to the hospital, once for hypothermia because my step father had left me in a bathtub with a window open in the middle of winter and again when nearly I nearly drowned in a hot tub. The only reason she took me the second time was because there were a lot of people there and my aunt insisted I go. When I became of school age, things started to get worse.

I haven’t ever really been all that lucky. I joked for years that the last time I’d ever won anything was in kindergarten when we played musical chairs before Christmas break, and to be fair, I killed it. Seriously. I was the bomb at musical chairs. I can’t really remember much about that period of my life. I remember the smell of the art room at school. I remember being a sort of pet to Paul’s friends. I remember Brian hating me and beating me up on a regular basis. I avoided him when I could and whenever I went crying to my mother, I was told I shouldn’t provoke him. I should just learn to walk away and be the bigger person. This wasn’t a concept I could grasp at the age of 5. I don’t think I grasped it until I was in my late teens/early twenties. That was a constant in my childhood and adolescence though. Brian hitting me, kicking me, pulling my hair, making me cry, making fun of me, calling me horrific names that no woman, much less a child, should be called. I hated him for years. HATED him. I remember being so excited when he was a senior in high school because I knew he’d be gone after the school year was done and I wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore and maybe, just maybe our relationship would improve. The funny thing about it though, is that when my mom lost her job and moved up to Michigan (leaving us behind), our relationship improved. We stopped fighting. We started getting along. We were able to cooperate and co-habitate with one another. We were friendly. Which has made me wonder what in the hell she was saying to him about me. Triangulation is an enormous feature in my relationships with my my brothers. Since I stopped talking to her in January my relationship with Paul has gotten so much better, but I will get into that in a bit.

I wasn’t denied the basic human needs for the most part. I had food, clothing, and a bed. I had toys and books. But I don’t know if I would say I had love. I had something resembling it, but the memories are so foggy and unreliable. I remember getting in major trouble for playing with my mother’s make up, but I remember her taking care of me when I had the chicken pox. I remember playing by myself a lot and always feeling like I didn’t belong. My first suicidal thought happened probably around the time I was 5, 6, or 7. I had a recurring dream about horrible goblins living under my bed that would stab you with a machete if you slept on your back. When you got up in the morning, the machete was still there and the people were wandering around just expressionless because they were dead. Weird, right? I remember most of all being jealous of her residents at the nursing home. She was so tender and sweet and loving to them. I started faking sick on a regular basis when I was in third grade. I wanted her to take the time to care for me like that. Most of the time, when I was sent home, I walked home alone and curled up on the couch feeling empty and alone. I hated everything about my life. Everything. My mother chalked it up to hormones, but I was barely 8 and I didn’t get my period for another 3 years. Hormones my ass.

I don’t remember ever being reassured about things either. I remember feeling insecure all the time and jealous of how easily things came to my brothers. I remember being fascinated by things, but never encouraged. The piano was put in Paul’s room so he could practice whenever he wanted, but it was off limits to me. I wanted to be him by this point. I wanted to be as perfect as he was. I wanted to be encouraged and reassured and nurtured like he was at every turn. I wanted all of it, but I never got it. When I was in middle school, she started a job that involved a lot of traveling. She would be gone from Monday to Friday, usually, and while Paul was in town, he was at the university, and my aunt and uncle were in town, but they weren’t particularly fond of the idea of their girls spending time with me. So instead, she hired some lady she had once worked with to check in on us once a day. Otherwise, we were on our own. For perspective’s sake, I was 13 or 14 and Brian was 16 or 17. Now I realize that she should have had CPS called on her, but no one really got into anyone else’s business. Instead, I collected mothers. Women who were strong and kind and loving, but I always was well aware that they were never mine.

Paul and I used to somewhat get along. We had a weird relationship though. As a single mother, my mom used him as a secondary authority figure – like a father figure almost. I liked him because he would call Brian off when he started to get “too rough”, and I use that term lightly. Too rough in my house meant that blood was drawn. I didn’t like him because he would never really have fun with us. Pillow forts were too childish and music was more important anyways. Granted, he is 6 years older than me. Things between he and I got bad when I got older. He tried to deter me from music, which in hindsight, I wish I had listened. He tried to keep his role as an authority figure long after it’s relevancy had waned. It never helped that my mother was always praising him and his efforts and how wonderful he was and how great it was that his friends were always over and how personable he was and etc etc etc... She never once said anything remotely close to that for me. I was supposed to be her. I was supposed to be the musician she never got to be. I was supposed to stick it to her parents (in a matter of speaking) and I was to be everything she wanted to be. She wanted to be a singer, I majored in it, but Paul was the one who became the musician she wanted to be. She sent him, multiple times, to Europe to study or compete. He became an organist, a pianist, a harpsichordist, a composer, a conductor, and a very well respected member of the musical world. I didn’t.

In my family, both in the home and extended, I was a punchline. Little Aimee who couldn’t keep her clothes on at the age of two. Little Aimee who had horrible temper tantrums and would slam doors. Little Aimee who was too loud. As I became a teenager, my sexuality became something everyone was afraid of. Not because they didn’t understand bisexuality or anything like that. Most of them didn’t know I liked girls until Sara. I was a young woman. I developed early, which for some reason was reason enough to pigeon hole me as a tramp by the time I was 15. I was poorly supervised as well, so of course, I was going to whore around. In my 15^th year, I had two boyfriends and one boy I loved desperately and tried desperately to forget. I broke up with one of them because he moved to quickly for me and I broke up with the other because I didn’t want to be someone’s property. I made decisions for myself and I was forced to grow up far too quickly. I became the head of a household when I was 15 and my mother moved to Michigan. She was home on weekends, but that didn’t change the fact that I ran the house and did everything but pay bills and grocery shop. I got my older brother up and off to school every morning. I made dinner and made sure homework was done. I did all of this and when I had the audacity to break my thumb in gym class, she threatened to move me up to Michigan with her before the school year was out. Never mind that there was only 2 weeks left to school and she’d been gone since February. My aunt and uncle that lived in town, by this point, were barely talking to us, and whenever I called to talk to my cousin (who was only a month older than me), she was never allowed to talk to me. I was dangerous and not to be associated with. When I started seriously dating people, I dreaded bringing them home to meet my family. I’ve only let them meet 2 people I’ve dated and I will never put Sara through that. I love her too much.

I don’t trust a lot of my memories though because I’ve been gaslighted. Whenever I brought up a memory that didn’t fit or had an argument with my mother, she rewrote history and presented it as fact. I wrote her a letter about a year ago, addressing the things I saw wrong in our relationship and how I wanted to fix them. I received a letter back telling me that I had stated months previously that I had admitted that all of these concerns were baseless and pointless and that if I continued to bring these things up to her, she would only speak with me about them in front of a licensed therapist. She said it because she knew I would back off and I did.

I don’t know if this explains anything, or if writing it was even necessary. I know that it’s a big part of why I can’t trust people, why I have anxiety issues, why I can’t handle harsh criticism, why I get defensive very quickly. I didn’t write this for sympathy or advice. I wrote this because it’s who I am. Not everyone gets the sweet wonderful dream come true family. Probably no one thinks they do, but there are people who do. My Sara is one of them. She came from a loving sweet family, with two parents who not only loved each other, but who adored each other and the babies they had together. I envy that childhood with my entire heart. I envy it, but I would never trade my childhood with someone else’s. I would never make someone else suffer just so that I could have it easy. I hate that I hate my mother. I hate that I love my mother. It’s unfair that any child should feel this way about their parent, but I get to stop it for my child and if others come along, them as well. Most people, understandably, get really upset when I tell them I won’t speak to my mother. They had loving mothers. Yes, they get angry at her from time to time, but they have never had to genuinely question if she loves them. I constantly asked myself “why can’t I just be good enough for her? Why can’t I just be enough for her to be proud?”. Now I’m asked when I will talk to her again. My honest answer is never. I can’t forgive her what she put me through because she chose to. I can’t forgive her because her apology will never be sincere and she will never be remorseful. I can’t forgive her for not even giving me 24 hours of happiness after my wedding before she treated me to the worst fight I’ve ever had with anyone. Instead, I'm happy. I have a wife and a son and a dog and a cat and they're all I need. She has a family that is nice and I'm trying to let them love me, but it's hard. I'm cobbling together a family from my closest friends. All of it is hard, but God help me, I'm trying. 

Stalking? I prefer to call it "enthusiastically shadowing"

It's been a surprisingly decent week. My mother has been ramping up her efforts to get a reaction out of me in the last couple weeks. It culminated in her deciding to just show up at our home last weekend, using her desire to sign over her van to me as her excuse. Thankfully, we got up early, drove up to her house (while she was en route to our home) and dropped the car off. I reiterated my desire for her to stay away in a letter, but I think it will only be a bandaid over a bullet wound. Afterwards, I had a great day, but I don't know how worth it it was considering the morning.

I am having a hard time with this. I really want to just accept that I don't get to have a mom. I want one though. Who doesn't? I just don't get one. I have mother figures, who are kind and loving, but I don't know if I could come running to them in tears if something horrible happened. I don't trust people. It's funny, I see the best in people for the most part, but I don't trust them at all.

I have so many uncried tears that I just want to get out. I'm so used to having to hold myself together that the idea of letting go is terrifying.

Damn I'm sore

Strength comes in many form. There's the obvious physical strength that when present in excessive amounts results in a scary visage laces in bulging veins and possible 'roid rage. Then there's emotional and psychological strength. You can't really see either. They are so closely linked that I'm not really sure they can be completely separated. I am moderately strong physically. I chopped the hell out of a sidewalk full of ice yesterday that was about 3 inches thick. My muscles ache and I'm tired.

Emotionally, I am stronger than most people because I have had to be. I often feel weak emotionally, but I figure that is because like muscles, I am just sore and tired. Like that jelly feeling you get in your legs after a long run. Psychologically, I'm working on strengthening that part. One day, I want to be able to not give a goddamn about what other people think. I want to be able to know that I'm awesome without validation from others. I want to not be scared of things I have control over.

My mother called this week to announce her desire to come down here this weekend to take care of a few "loose ends" having to do with my car. She isn't asking if she can come and I suspect she will eventually just show up. I have been angry and terrified ever since she made that call. The terrified part is starting to leave me though and is being replaced by a resolve to remove her from my home if she shows up. I am angry and frustrated. I dreamt of her last night. It woke me up and I was physically sick for two hours. She needs to go away and for once, I might be strong enough to get rid of her.

Come to the dark side... We just ran out of cookies

I'm in a bad place. A very very bad place. I wish talking to people would help, but it doesn't. They give me the sad face and tell me how my words make them sad. Truth is though, if I'm being 100% honest with myself, I want to kill myself. I really do. I look in the mirror every morning and every night before bed and I see a fat, ugly, selfish, lazy, horrible person. A person who doesn't deserve the things she has. Someone who can't trust a compliment because I truly do believe its just something people say to lower my guard so that when they stab me in the back, the knife goes nice and deep.

I live in fear of the day Sara will leave me and I just want to run away from everyone. I have no illusions of grandeur. I don't think that if I run away MY life will be better. I just hope that my running away and living in a ditch somewhere will result in someone killing me so that I don't have to do it. I find myself angry with Sara when she compliments me and then I get enraged with myself for pushing her away. She deserves better than I can ever give her. I hate myself for letting her go through with the wedding and even when she assures me that it's what she wanted, I just nod because I don't want to argue with her. If I were a good and decent person, I would have stopped her, but instead, I was selfish.

My mother is right to hate me. I'm negative, worthless, and have nothing to offer. My father was right. I should have been aborted. I still hope they die painfully - even if all they were doing was being honest with me. Maybe my mother isn't a narcissist. Maybe I am and I'm twisting things so that I'm the victim. Bullies pick on people by accusing them of the things they hate most about themselves. Aren't I just doing the same thing? I'm a "victim" so I despise it in my mother. Seriously. Sara and Liam say that I'm "the glue" that holds us all together, which I interpret to mean that I demand all the attention in the house. I sure as hell am my favorite topic. Seriously. Liam and Sara both deserve better and I owe it to them to try. I doubt i will ever succeed. I'm a coward and G-d seems to hate me.

But she's your mother!

I've heard this a lot lately. Every time I hear it, there is a pang of guilt that hits me like a ton of bricks. She is my mother. She tried to be a mom sometimes, but mostly she was my mother. She gave me life and most of the time, I'm grateful for that. But she's also someone who has caused me so much pain that I've genuinely wondered if suicide is the only way to make her happy. I have done everything I can to make her happy. I've made myself smaller. I would speak when spoken to. I was honest, unless I was terrified. I made myself smaller and I tried to be what she wanted, even, no, especially if it meant not being me. When I got frustrated or tired of the charade, I snapped at her or got argumentative. I got great grades in school. I worked my ass off - all of it trying to make her proud or happy, but something was always wrong. I was subtly compared to my siblings unfavorably. I was blamed for things I couldn't have done. I was thrown under the bus and no one stopped it.

I smile wistfully at these people because their moms probably made time for them. They were proud and made sure you knew it - not just because you made them look good, but because you had done so many wonderful and unique things that made you who you are. You had support and someone to cry to if things got really bad. I didn't have that. I collected surrogate parents. I relied on friends who weren't capable of parenting me because they were just kids themselves. I get jealous sometimes, but I recognize that that is about me and that I am genuinely happy for people who didn't have to go through what I did. It doesn't mean I don't go to sleep at night asking, 'why me?'.

It's been a month since I last saw my mother and had the worst fight I've had in 9 years. On the 4th, it will be a month since I told her I couldn't be a part of her life anymore and that I didn't want her in mine. She tried calling me this week and, because I blocked her number, left a voicemail. I didn't listen to it. I made Sara listen to it for me and she said my mother sounded like nothing had happened. I want to email her and ask her what part of my email did she not understand. I can't though. I have established boundaries and if I break them, even to reestablish them, it shows her that they are weak.

I've been considering getting a phoenix tattoo to remind me of what I am. I am rising from the ashes and while the current version of me isn't pretty and is a complete mess, if the legend is correct, I will emerge from this more beautiful than before. I think a reminder would be nice right now because I keep forgetting that this is just the messy stage.

Yes. She is my mother and because of that I thank her for creating me and for carrying me, but I do not thank her for a childhood of being her scapegoat, of her ignoring abuse, and feeling inadequate. I have had to create my own family. It is small and it is a patchwork quilt of people, but at least they give me the love and support I need without demanding restitution for the inconvenience. They let me love them in return too and that's the part I like best. I get to walk away without guilt. I get to emerge from the destruction and ashes of my life up until this point and I get to try again.