I’m a Good Girl, Huh, Mommy?

            I have had an epiphany, thanks, much to my chagrin, to Oprah Winfrey and the movie, “Joy Luck Club.”  To explain my epiphany, you must know some back story.

            When I was born, nearly 35 years ago, my mother was single and living with various friends and relatives.  I was the center of her universe.  We ate from the same TV dinner.  We watched TV together.  She read to me at bedtime, and sang to me when the mood struck her.  She carried me when I was tired.  She called me “Babe,” and “Punkin.”  I remember these days fondly.

            When I was three and a half, she, still single, gave birth to my brother.  He was a fussy baby.  He was colicky and demanding of her time.  She was depressed and harried, and, still single, had little time for me.

            She tells me that there came a day when I asked her why she didn’t love me anymore.  She says that she told me that it wasn’t that she didn’t love me, but that my brother was helpless and she had to take care of him or he’d die.  I do not remember this conversation, but what I do recall is the many times from that day forward that she let me be “Mama’s helper.”  If she needed me to get her a warm cloth for my brother’s dirty bottom, she’d lavish me with praise when I delivered.  “You’re Mama’s big girl,” and my chest swelled with pride.

            That became love for me.  I lived for those moments of recognition.  I strove to do everything for myself, so that Mama would recognize my achievements and lavish me with praise.  I’m a good girl, huh, Mommy?

             As I grew older, more siblings came along.  I tried to do more and more to get my mother’s attention, and to her credit, she did her best to lavish me with praise.  But time makes some achievements less impressive, and I felt I had to do more and more to continue to receive love as I had come to know it.

             I became a high achiever in school.  Recognition from my teachers was almost as good as recognition from my mom.  I became a high achiever at church – holier than everyone else, or so I thought.  I did my best to make loving me easy.  I caused no trouble.  I tried to be helpful.  Most of all, I was understanding.

             I was understanding when my mom couldn’t walk me to school on the first day, each year, because there were other kids who needed her more than I did.  I was understanding when she couldn’t attend my choir and band functions, because it was too big of a hassle to gather everyone and bring them along.  I was so understanding, that it surprised me when my mother planned to attend my 8th grade graduation.  After all, it wasn’t high school.

             My favorite times were when I was sick.  It was at those times that I did not have to do anything outstanding to get my mother’s attention.  She fawned over me, and spoiled me with sandwiches made with the good lunch meat, usually reserved only for my stepfather’s lunches.  She would bring me crayons and coloring books, and set me a special place in the living room, with pillows and blankets.

             There came a time when my mother turned to chemical means of dealing with her depression.  I had no idea what was going on at the time, only that, for the first time that I could recall, I thought my mother hated me.  I remember having panic attacks when the last bell rang, ending the school day.  I remember stomping angrily to my room and locking myself in, when various undesirables found their way into our house due to the lifestyle that was being lived at the time.

             But when this time passed, my mother apologized to me and explained what had happened.  She hugged me, and I patted her and told her, “it’s ok, Mama.  I understand.”

             This behavior translated itself into my future relationships.  I never complained regardless of how I was being treated.  When my husband had a room full of expensive musical equipment and I had only one bra and no good shoes, I was understanding.  He’d never been able to have the things that he wanted before.  It won’t be like this always.

             When he and I divorced, he committed suicide.  I did not get angry.  I understood that he was in pain.  He was only trying to stop the pain.

             In my next relationship, I lived with a man who dreamed of being an artist.  He told me he couldn’t hold down a regular job, because it would crush his artistic spirit.  I was understanding.  To keep him from spending $50 per week on coffee and lunches, I started getting up earlier, so I could make them for him.  When he almost went to jail for not paying fines, I paid them for him.  I made sure that his needs were met before mine.  I understood that he didn’t have time to plan special evenings for me, or take my needs into consideration at all.  He’d had a rough life.  It wouldn’t always be like this.  And by the way, I’m a good girlfriend, huh, Baby?

             One day, I found myself coming to on the bathroom floor after having passed out for no apparent reason.  Shortly thereafter, I found myself in the emergency room, undergoing emergency surgery for a ruptured ectopic pregnancy.  I remember waking up in my room, and smiling to myself.  My parents had come to visit me.  My grandpa and friends were calling me.  And I didn’t have to do anything special – well, except almost die.

             I have been understanding of every shortcoming of every person I’ve ever loved.  I’ve striven to make loving me as easy as possible.  I don’t ask for anything.  I don’t complain when I’m abused or neglected.  I try to make sure that everyone else is happy before I even consider my own needs.

             Last weekend, I watched Joy Luck Club with a dear friend of mine.  In one scene, one of the women tells her husband, “It’s bullshit, but it’s not your fault.  I taught you that your love was more valuable than mine.”

             I wept openly.

             I recognized that theme in my relationships, but at that moment, had not tied it to my childhood.  Oprah did that for me, as she interview Mindy McCready, the country singer who claims to deeply love a man who beat her nearly to death.  “What relationship in your past was just like this thing you don’t like about your relationships today?”

             And again, I wept openly.

             I don’t know where to go from here.  How does one find the equilibrium?  How do I get from my lovers the consideration that I give them so freely?  They are not bad men.  I have just made them lazy.  Why should they try if I do not require them to?