Gripping the Steering Wheel

I couldn’t hear anything other than the thump, thump, thump my heart was beating. My heart was racing. It wasn’t just racing; I swear it was on the verge of leaving my chest. Thumping pressure that pushed tears out of my eyes. Again, she got the best of me. My fingers gripped the steering wheel, turning white as I tried to bring my brain back from that conversation, bring my mind back to the turn I was in the process of making. I tried to bring my mind back from that encounter. I lost it. Again, I lost it. I screamed at her.

I hated her. How could she? I called wanting to speak to my mother. The person who is supposed to be my ultimate safe place. The person who is supposed to care for me the most. The conversation started out like any other. I was taking a detour on my way to work and traveled past my grandmother’s grave to check on her.. as if she was going anywhere. I wanted to make sure she looked as loved as she was. But of course, there wasn’t a sign that anyone had visited since I had, and that was before Christmas. I called my mother, her daughter, for a word of comfort.

“Hello,” she answered. I often get different versions of her when I call and I can almost always accurately predict which mother it is I get to speak with. This one was the dismal, woe-is-me version of her. I asked how her day was going and shared that her sister was supposed to be visiting from out of town. That sent her down a spiral from which there was no return. I checked the flowers and dusted some dead grass off of my grandmother’s gravestone. “Hold on to the Memories” it read. I thought to myself “yeah, sure..” My mom’s voice trailed off about what a horrible person my aunt was. “..she was never there.. she wasn’t involved.. she only cares about herself..” yadda yadda. I got back in the car and circled around, half paying attention to my mother’s venting and half wondering what lives were lived by all the grey stones. I pulled out on to the main road. I drove down the road and kept getting closer and closer to work and mom kept rambling about terrible people and terrible things.

Any other morning I would have entertained her conversation, politely ended the call, and carried on about my day. But today was different. My two little children had been sick for nearly two weeks. My husband was now off of work sick. I, myself, was just over the flu. It was as if all that sickness had drained me. I had no reserve left for her carelessness. “Mom, you know, this morning has started out pretty good for myself and I need to end this conversation on a positive note.”

“What do you mean, who are you talking to.. WHO ARE YOU?! This isn’t my daughter. I didn’t raise her to be so disrespectful. I don’t even know you anymore.” She just kept on with these ridiculous statements. Who am I? Are you kidding me? “Mom, I just need some positivity. Work is crazy and I haven’t even started my day yet. Can we just change the conversation?” I’m fairly confident that she didn’t even hear me. She kept on, and on, and on pestering me with these stupid, absurd comments. Negativity pouring out of her mouth. I wonder if she even heard what she was saying?

Then, as if out of nowhere, I had it. I had enough of her mouth. Of her constant negativity. Of her lack of mothering skills. I had enough of all of it. My heart began racing. I lost all control. I yelled as loud as I could. “DAMMIT, MOM, IS IT SO HARD FOR YOU TO BE A MOTHER? YOU AREN’T A FUCKING MOTHER!” In the middle of what was happening it was like I came to, and immediately hung up the phone.

Guilt and shame immediately overtook the anger I was feeling. I was gripping that steering wheel like my life depended on it. No matter what a pestering batch of negativity she was, I should not have behaved in that fashion. As quickly as I had erupted and discontinued that call, I called her back. “Hello,” she said, again with the dismissive tone. “I’m sorry. I should not have yelled at you. Please forgive me.” She replied, without emotion “Are you finished?” I took a deep breath and I was honest with her.

“Mom, I’m struggling. I know you don’t hold your family in very high regard, but I don’t want to talk about things that don’t matter. Our time is precious and my morning started off pretty well. I just want you to care enough to ask about me. How am I doing? How are your grandchildren? Ask about the things that matter.” I felt as if I was pouring my heart out. Just care about me, your daughter, for once. She retorted as void of any emotion as one could be, “if you feel like you have everything off of your chest I’m done with this conversation.” She hung up.

I look into the faces of my precious little boy and my sweet little girl and I cannot imagine letting the things that do not matter trump my care for them. I always want them to know how much I love them. How I am there for them. That I would kill for them to be happy and successful. (Ok, maybe not kill, but you get what I’m saying.) Even the girl that I raised that has no blood kin to me. I want her to know how special she is and that she isn’t alone facing this awful world.

At the end of the conversation with the woman who brought me into this world, I felt more empty than I had in a long time. She didn’t just rob any care from me, but she got to me, again. I felt disappointed in myself. I felt like a failure. Here I was a good woman, behaving in such an irate fashion. My heart wasn’t in my chest. It was in my throat. It was pushing the tears out of my eyes again. My heart that I usually guarded was letting me know that I had failed it.

And the worst part? Shoving it back down into the chest where it belongs. Wiping the tears away. Making sure my mascara wasn’t totally ruined and I looked halfway decent as I went into work, pretending that life was indeed, good. But the good take away? I at least made sure to ask everyone how they were that day, and not in a generic way either. In an “I want to know how your soul is doing” type of way.

I hated her. She doesn’t know what she has done, or at least I cannot allow myself to believe that. My entire life has been trying to deal with her irrationality. Her mental state of mind, her constant emotional manipulation, and abuse. I hated her.

I have to remain in focus. I have to put things in a different perspective. I have to constantly adjust and try to be thankful for her even though she left me without a mother. She may be alive, but she is not a mother. She may be my mother, but she is not a mother. How do I know this? Because I am a mother. And when I look into the eyes of innocent children I know there is no way I would ever make them feel the way she makes me feel.

I would even go so far as to say that living with a mother that has mental illness can be likened to living with a mother diagnosed with dementia. At one point in my life I used to feel so bad for the children of parents in the memory care unit because although they were alive, they weren’t able to fill the position the children (adult children) needed them to. The same stands true with my mother. She may be alive. She may be healthy. I still have to continuously grieve the fact that I don’t have a mother mother.

Lord knows that knife runs deep. I hope I am right when I say that I have forgiven her.