Yesterday I sat out in the warm sun, a different setting compared to my gloomy room that’s been absorbing my cold, trying to work up the courage to call my mom. It shouldn’t be this hard and it shouldn’t require this much thought, but considering our past history over the course of these last three years, I was having trouble. I found myself tearing up.
You see, I grew up with a kind and fun loving mother. She hid her demons well, despite the little moments they broke lose. She never hurt us, at least not physically, and she always promised to love and care about us children. I find this ironic, and it may be immature or lame of me to admit, but her attitude and lack of love and caring of me as a teenager pushed me to move out on my own at 18. I will forever regret moving out so soon, that night, so fast, waiting until my dad arrived home late from work to say goodbye, because the least I could do was tell him in person. But it hurt them to see me leave, and it hurt me that they could not grasps the damage that had been done by their words. I can’t go in to too much personal detail, but it mostly involved my christian conservative parents disappointed that I had plans to move in with my boyfriend. Thus forcing them to accept that their once missionary-to-be daughter was “ruined.”
“You are going to hell, we raised you better than to be a slut.” Something a few harsh weeks before I moved out my mother had yelled at me. She later regrets it, and apologized, but it made me realize there is this blind that no one wants to open in that house and that is the fact that a human being can make decisions for themselves without it being dictated by a God or a book or something as simple as a traditional upbringing.
I was not a slut, and I would like to believe that my soul will reincarnate into a mermaid when I die. However if there is a hell, I hope people who have done far worse than say those things to their daughters, and people who have done far worse than commit the sins of this daughter, are living there.
It’s been almost two years since I made the choice to move out, or rather was evicted from my own home with a month “to get myself together.” Two years and I am still with the boyfriend that created me into a “deceiving, dishonorable, slut.” He does not abuse me, he does not take advantage of me, and he most certainly does not call me any of these degrading names. He’s no prince charming on a white stallion, but he does drive a red mustang and can cook up a feast for two in fifteen minutes.
I did not distance myself from them as much as most young adult females would have. I still had a younger sister I wanted to see, and I still loved and missed my parents. I never had any intentions of hurting them, so I have made every effort to show them that. With little bits of progress here and there, by visiting on holidays and birthdays and random Sunday’s, things have gotten less tense. They still do not accept me, they claim to love me and would let me move back in, but they refuse to see or allow my boyfriend over to visit, or even speak of him. This, will ultimately be what keeps us from ever having that “bond” again.
Despite the baby steps, I’m still feeling like I’m alone in this process. I need my mom a lot, I miss my mom. I miss who we were, when we would go to tea party’s in Amish country and watch romantic comedies on repeat.
But yet, I can’t call her. I just saw her a few weeks ago while saying goodbye to my sister as she was packing her car up for college. My mom was crushed, she had spent most of her life raising three children, and they are now all moved away. Of course the closest one living near her would be me, the one she least wants to see most likely. I don’t want her depression and own personal demons to ruin her anymore than it already has, so despite the fact that I may have done some kind of damage to her condemning judgmental soul, I still care. I still cherish the memories. I’m still the “positive thinker” in this family.
So why don’t you call me, mom. I will try not to cry if you start crying. I will try not to bring up things that upset you, I will listen to what is wrong, and I will make plans to call you more often.
I want you to be happy when I get engaged, married, have children.
But how can any of this happen, if I can’t even call you?