I often think about my personality when I am around my mother. After she left this country to continue her life in her homeland, I received something that I haven’t had in all of my 33 years of living. My own room…IN THE PLACE I GREW UP IN. I lived in Bushwick for three years but that doesn’t count. So now I have space, silence, control of the temp, how much light I can let in and most importantly, privacy. I can sleep whenever I want wake up whenever I want eat whenever I want. I know it sounds ridiculous coming from a person that’s 33. But growing up with a strict immigrant mother, it’s very common.
Her last visit was similar to how it was when I was a child. It was rough. Hard to navigate being respectful and setting boundaries at the same time. “I know she loves me”, that’s what I tell myself on loop to keep my sanity. That and “but she doesn’t like me” plays as well. I yearn for a close connection to my mother. I want to tell her everything. I mean she’s the first person I met. Why is it so hard?
I wish she was open and wasn’t so afraid of everything. I bring up ideas for my hair, how to rearrange my room, but it gets shot down with negativity immediately. I don’t even think she realize that she always does this. If I bring it up I get a response like “I would never” “how could you think of me like that? I am your mother”. It’s never solved. We move on like it never happened. It makes me feel insane.
She’s visiting again and I don’t want it to be like how it always is. I don’t want to tip toe around. I’m ready to finally let her know how I’m feeling. Let’s just hope she don’t cry.
