November 13th

Today is my mother's birthday.  Well.  Maybe.  You never know anything for sure with my mom.  I have a very complicated relationship with my mother.  And what better way to celebrate her birthday than by telling the entire internet!

The first thing I have to tell you is that I do love my mother.  And I believe she loves me, in whatever capacity she is capable of.  That being said...

I don't remember feeling loved as a child by my mother.  A burden, an annoyance, a possession, a disappointment, an enemy, sure.  Now, granted, I've spoken here before about my lack of memories from my childhood, so there could very easily be many many good things in my past that I just don't have access to.  I'm not discounting that possibility.  But the memories I do have - being in 4th grade, coming home excited about getting an A on a spelling test, and her telling me to stop fishing for compliments.  Being put in charge of my 3 year old sister when I was 9 for the hours after school until my mother got home from work, including picking her up from daycare, and being yelled at for not getting the house cleaned.  Being called a slut when I was still a virgin.  Repeatedly.  Until I decided I may as well earn the damn title.  Having to skip days of high school to stay home to take care of my youngest 2 sisters, or trying to attend class with an 18 month old and a 4 month old.

Now - to be fair - the childcare duties were mostly so my mother could work to support us.  Four children and very little or no child support makes it very hard.  But I was a kid.  And I was a messed up kid already, thanks to my father.  So it's no wonder I started acting out.

Another thing about my mother - she is a compulsive liar.  About everything.  Little things that don't matter to anyone. Like her birthday.  Growing up, her birthday was June 13th.  According to her driver's license it still is.  But according to my mother, she got some paperwork from her sister a number of years ago claiming it was a mistake of her birth certificate, and her birthday is actually November 13th.  So that's when we celebrate it.  And big things that hurt people very badly.  Like the one my sister and I grew up believing about my sister being a twin.  According to my mother, my sister A was a twin, born early, weighing just over 2lbs.  Our "sister" weighed even less, lived 3 days.  Every year on A's birthday my mother would make a show of being brave, of celebrating while mourning.  Only one small problem.  There was no twin.  A wasn't born early.  I remember seeing her in the hospital nursery, a healthy baby, and we have a picture of me holding her at 2 weeks old, and she is obviously no preemie.  It's taken A most of her adult life to come to grips with the fact that she is not a twin - a fact that she'd always accepted as part of who she was.

And then there's the one where my mother told me I was the cause of her losing custody of my 2 youngest sisters.  When in reality she willingly gave them to their father.  And then couldn't get them back because she chose to stay married to an abusive man.  But to this day, she still claims it was because of me.  The thing about my mothers lies is we've come to the realization that she believes them.  On some level, she's convinced herself of their veracity.

When I was 16 I ended up inpatient at a psychiatric hospital for 3 months.  I made it home for 2, and then went back in for 6.  (Remind me to tell you all those stories sometime if you're interested.)  Within 4 months of getting home - I was kicked out of my mother's house.  I was 17.  I didn't talk to her for a year or so - got back into contact with her, then she moved and I had no idea how to find her.  When I was 23 I tracked down my ex-stepfather, my youngest sister's father, and through them, found her.

In the years since it's been tumultuous at best.  Having my children calmed her.  I have something she wants now.  Kind of.  Grandchildren are sweet, and great in pictures, but noisy and messy and inconvenient if dealt with too often in person. There was a 3 or 4 month period in there where my mother didn't speak to me because she found out I was speaking to my father.  I've learned how I'm expected to act - I'm to be grateful for everything she ever did for me.  At all times.  And I must apologize at least 2 or 3 times a year for all the hell I put her through as a troubled teen.  She still holds that against me.  Even though I was a child.  Two years ago she actually moved here to be closer to me and my children.  She calls me every day.  Every single day.  If I don't answer I had better have an acceptable reason.  Being busy isn't acceptable - then I just have to call her back.  And I have to hear, at least weekly, if not more frequently, my failings as a mother, all the ways in which I'm not strict enough, doing it wrong, and how she did it better.  How much better my kids would act if they were hers.  Then she'll tell me I'm a good mother.  And that she's proud of me.  But I don't believe her.  How can I?

But - for all that.  I love my mother.  I think she has some serious psychiatric issues, yes.  But I do love her, and I do think she loves me, as much as she is capable of.  I just wish her brand of love didn't come with barbs.