Continued:

She was so nice to others, and so angry at me. I can still feel the envy burning within me, wanting what they had that I didn’t have: her niceness, her being oh, so very nice. Her softness, her approval, her praise, her efforts to please: they had it. To her, other people mattered, I didn’t. All the many hours I watched her trying so hard to please others, to flatter them, being oh, so kind.

I wanted what they had, her (what appeared to be) love. In their presence, it appeared to be love, outside their presence, she complained to me about them. But what did I know: it appeared like love and I WANTED THAT.

The gap between her words to others (you are the BEST), and her words to me (you are the WORST).

Oh, why mother, why, why couldn’t you, wouldn’t you love me, ME, why not ME?

The rage, the envy.

LOOK AT ME, do you see anything at all that.. you’d be okay with liking, loving.. something, anything?

I remembered only recently, a couple of years ago, maybe, that she looked at me intently (only me and her there, in the small living room), she looked at me, then she let go of a few shaming words, really intensely shaming words, planned for best (worst) impact. She said those words and then she paused, waiting for the effect to take hold in me, waiting to see me hurt, ashamed.. waiting, and then, I saw that mild smile on her face, as in mission accomplished, a successful hit. The shame must have shown on my face.

That was when I was a teenager. Fast forward more than 30 years, the last time I saw her, she looked at me across the same small living room, there were other people there, guests, she looked at me with hate, a wanting to see me hurt, but not having the opportunity (being that there were guests there) to make me hurt. Oh, how deprived she was, my poor mother.

I am not being cynical (or sarcastic, whatever the word is) in typing what I just typed above: part of me feels sorry for her for not being able to express what she felt, having to hold it in.

To love someone who hates you…

I wouldn’t be able to type all this if it wasn’t for the red wine I just consumed.. I must confess.

anita