I always end up with mixed feelings on Mother’s Day.
Sometimes I think my mother was just as much a victim as I was. Sometimes I even feel some empathy for her. I don’t know with 100% confidence that my grandfather did the same things to her, but it’s a pretty good bet. Things like that just don’t start.
And then there are the time when I just hate her. She made the choices she did. She walked away when she saw what my father was doing to me. She allowed that cycle of abuse to continue. I’m not saying it would have been easy for her to intervene and get me help. But it would have been the right thing to do. She saw kids day in and day out at work who were going through similar circumstances. She helped them, but she couldn’t help me.
I’m sitting here writing this and I realize just how angry I am. It has taken me years and years to get to the point where I can feel anger. It’s not a pleasant feeling, but it isn’t nearly as bad as I imagined it would be. There are no lightening bolts coming in through my windows. The earth isn’t spinning off its axis. The city hasn’t self destructed. It is really windy outside, though.
I still question whether I have the right to be angry. Maybe I should just suck it up and accept things were the way they were. But just the fact I can feel some anger is a good sign.
I’m angry because of all thing things I’ve lost in my life. I’m angry for the thousands and thousands of dollars I spent on treatment to deal with the hell my parents put me though. I’m angry because it just wasn’t fair. Life is rarely fair, but my childhood goes beyond the whiny “It’s not fair” things.
Okay. I need to go take some Ativan before I totally wig out. I’m still mostly all right, but I can feel the panic rearing its ugly head.