Just a girl, standing in front of the internet, telling it she loves it.
Yesterday, in a surprising but not completely unprecedented move, my mom commented on an essay I wrote on the internet. It was an essay that mentioned her — not by name or anything, not in any Google-able way that would allow someone who didn’t know her to identify her or lead anyone searching for her name to my writing — in the context of my own struggles with depression. I have written very occasionally about the fact that my mother suffers from either Borderline or Narcissistic Personality Disorder and addiction, and that my childhood was very fraught and traumatic because of those things. A little over five years ago, I cut my mom out of my life. I told her frankly that she’d spent decades hurting me and that I needed her to leave me alone to let me heal and live a full life. My decision to walk away came not long after her release from jail for stealing from her elderly mother and a series of threatening text messages she sent to me that said things like: “I’m tired of playing! I will find you!” And: “I have a mental illness. I have not murdered anyone.” And: “Where’s your heart? You were raised better than this, by me, your mom.”
It was just another day in a seemingly endless cycle that defined my late teens and nearly all of my 20s: My mom raining down abuse, denying responsibility for her actions, making the case for herself as a good parent, and trying to shame and guilt me into having a relationship with her.
Which was exactly how the comment she left on my essay yesterday played. She violated the very clear boundary I asked her to respect, accused me of lying about the abuse I suffered as a child and of misrepresenting her, reminded me of one of the good times we had when I was a teenager, and begged me to reconnect with her.
I was shocked when the comment appeared in my inbox, shocked and shaken to the point that I had to wrap a blanket around myself to stop the shivering, and also I thought I might throw up. First, of course, and as always, dealing with my mother makes me feel like a child in an adult’s body, with no power or autonomy, helpless and alone.Â
Then, the guilt. Had I remembered it wrong? Had she been an exemplary mother and I was just exaggerating the trauma of growing up with her? Well no, but did I have a right to tell anyone about it? Think about how that made her feel, how unfair to talk so openly about something I knew would cause her pain if she ever read it. How selfish of me to not think of her feelings when I was publishing these stories about my childhood. How horrible I must be, how awful inside, building shelter for the homeless mama cat in my backyard, caring more for her well being than for that of my own mother.
The three-fold trickiness is that I’m from the South, where all less-than-perfect family matters are to be kept inside the family and never ever ever talked about publicly (or even privately, to be honest); and I’m the child of a mentally ill addict, so the code of silence was woven into my consciousness as soon as I learned to talk; and I have been a victim of abuse, a thing society fully punishes women for speaking out about. Stack those three things on top of each other and everything comes into focus. I wrote an essay about being a suicidal child who went to bed every night praying to wake up in a different life. My mom read the essay, and responded not with an apology or a message of compassion or — best of all — by leaving and not forcing the knowledge of her presence into my safe space; but by framing it as an attack on her. How dare I make my childhood pain public? How dare I do that to her? And my immediate response was to believe her.
This is where you come in.Â
When I was a little kid, I was obsessed with superheroes. OBSESSED. Jesus had my soul, but Batman had my heart. I read and watched everything I could get my hands on about superheroes. One time a guy dressed like Batman came to my kindergarten class and said two things that changed my whole life: 1) You’re a superhero if you do more good stuff than bad stuff. 2) You’re a superhero if you help the helpless.
Because my mom blamed me and my sister for everything from her anger to making her feel unloved for not cleaning our bedrooms, I felt like a monster most of the time — but here was Batman telling me that I actually might be a superhero if I had more tick marks in the Good column than in the Bad column. I wanted to believe I was Good so badly that I started keeping a list of every helpless person or animal I tried to rescue, something I could present as evidence in the court of my own mind to exonerate me for things my mom accused me of. It was me grappling with my own superheroism, just me, because I couldn’t tell anyone else about my mom, just me and my lists. I made them for 25 years.
It didn’t work. I mean, sometimes it worked. Sometimes I could convince myself I was a Good guy, but my programming was all jacked up. (The actual Good that came from making the lists was that I fell in love with helping the helpless. Doing Good made me feel good. Doing Good was the one thing that sustained my soul.) Last night, when I read that comment from my mom, and I went to my child brain place and I started berating myself, an amazing thing happened to me: I remembered you. I remembered all the comments you’ve left me over the last seven years, the tweets, Facebook and Tumblr messages, the emails. Sharing your similar stories and virtually taking my hand and standing in solidarity with me. Sharing your stories and telling me that sharing my story helped you. Making me laugh until I cry and opening my mind and heart to new ideas and new, more compassionate ways of seeing the world. Creating the smartest, wittiest, most socially conscious group of real-time TV watchers on the internet. Coming to my aid with kind words and warm wishes and even with your own hard-earned money. Saving Scout, saving my street kittens. Paying for A+ memberships so I can buy groceries and pay my rent. So many of you being my actual real friends.Â
Last night I remembered that you are Good and you make me Good and my guilt, it melted right away. For the first time ever, the feeling of being a helpless child didn’t last. Not weeks or days or even hours. I felt it for ten minutes, maybe 15. I called my sister. I emailed my girlfriend. I tweeted. I remembered the seven years I’ve spent writing and the seven years you’ve spent engaging with me. I felt powerful and in control; I felt the shape of myself clearly, boldly outlined and I knew my mom couldn’t tear down the truth of me, or erase me. You have witnessed me.Â
It’s not that I don’t fuck up. It’s that you allow me to fuck up and fix it. It’s that you believe I can be Good and trust that’s actually everything and all I’m trying to be.Â
I will battle with my childhood all my life, I think — but for the first time, I feel like I can triumph in most of the emotional skirmishes that come my way because of it. I thank you and I honor you and I thank you again. I love you guys. I do. I love you.
yousharknotpass
jacobvanloon
kianamaiart
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