The tempo of my life has beat strongly for 41 years now. I can say that without hesitation and rather willingly I have let more than half of those beats rhythmically and freely tick past without my mother in my life. It has never bothered me for even a moment as the years vacillated and fluctuated on the ocean of life. Or has it?
I can still retrace in my mind’s eye the footsteps of a time gone by in 12th grade when I only had two weeks left before graduation. I eagerly anticipated being the first person in my family to graduate. But for reasons yet unknown to me, my mother did not show up to get me from school that day.
After hours of walking down Hwy 42 I finally made my way home after dark only to find that the apartment where we lived was empty of everything but my half gallon of vodka and some large, three-wick, scented candles. The power was turned off and there was not any food in the fridge or even a note as to where everyone had gone.
Growing older is by definition the changes we go through as humans, including aging, that are both mental and physical. It is a wide range of experiences that make us uniquely who we are. Our mind and body should adapt to external stimuli and pressures placed on us by our environment as we age in a way that better equips us for new experiences which we will face as we continue to grow older. Being able to remember our past practical mental and physical relationship with life’s challenges, both good and bad, should help us to better be prepared for our future as it encroaches unyieldingly upon us.
As I grew older, that one particular singular moment when she, my step dad (who later died of AIDS which he must have gotten from cheating on my mother with other men), and my sister left me because they couldn’t afford the rent, really began to piss me off.
As I struggled with addiction, behavior issues, and other challenges like homelessness, I could here her basically saying she didn’t care about my life. I found it easy to blame my parents and, temporarily, even those around me for my struggles. I was not supposed to struggle because I didn’t do anything wrong. It wasn’t fair.
Fast forward to 41 and I have thought about coming home to that empty apartment at least once a day ever since my final two weeks of high school. I speculate that accumulates to tens of thousands of times without missing a single day. Most people get in their vehicle and shut the door and light up a cigarette. I shut the door and get lost in my thoughts along with my music. Sometimes, if I am lost enough, I forget to even turn my music on.
The aforementioned day was the primary reason every time my grandfather would talk to me over the campfire and tell me that I needed to call my mother, because if I didn’t “someday you will regret it,” that I actually never did call her. There is no way I would regret not speaking to someone who abandoned me. She called me maybe six times over the past 20 odd years, but it was never like we had anything to talk about. Besides, she wasn’t actually calling me as much as it was my grandfather handing her the phone after a few drinks and all she would say is, “just that I miss you and love you.”
“Ok, talk to you later.”
I hated that she would say those words to me. She proved several times even up till that point when she left that she clearly did not love me. I really grew more and more angry over the years every time I thought about her or had to hear her goddamn raspy cracked-out voice on the fucking phone with that Podunk, Mississippi accent. I would literally tremble holding the phone to my ear. My therapist thinks that this may be the reason why I have such a hard time talking on the phone to this very day. We spent some time tracing it back, or whatever.
So, over the years, driving home and thinking with a certain degree of awareness and intention as I always do, I became less angry and more hurt at the thought of that fucking bitch not giving a goddamn about my life, then calling and telling me that she “just misses me and loves me.” As if all she can do is sit around with her head in her hands and drink and smoke cigarettes and be miserable without me. Sometimes while I’m driving I just hit the steering-wheel with the palm of my hand without saying a word.
I can’t tell you, my eager reader, how I have cursed that goddamn woman day after day after day. Then, out of nowhere it occured to me the other day while I was thinking about a quote from Buddha, that I have spent a good fraction of my life absolutely miserable and angry, along with a host of other emotions I can’t even explain, cursing my mother for something that happened 20 plus years ago.
70 years later people still hate Hitler, right? Is there really a fine line between a politician ordering the death of millions of people whom they don’t even know and a mother slowly killing her son?
Politicians do stab each other in the back but that’s expected. I think that once again we should look at the literal backstabbing of Julius Caesar in Shakespeare’s play and his final words to his best friend, Brutus, as Caesar held on to him for dear life with the knife deep in his back: “Et tu, Brute?” (Even you, Brutus?) These three words which can draw tears from any grown man, yes, even I teared up and I still do every damn time I read the play, as a broken-hearted Julius Caesar was stabbed in the back; the final death blow coming from someone whom he didn’t expect and loved like a brother. Perhaps, “etiam tu, mater?” (Even you, my mother?)
Therapist: “Have you heard the one about the two monks?”
Me: “I suppose not.”
Therapist: “So, there were these two monks. They were dressed in their orange kasaya’s as they walked down the long muddy trail through one village on their way to another. It was during monsoon season so there was an incredible flash-flood which nearly washed away the villages. The two monks were knee-deep in the mud and water. It was incredibly difficult just to walk as they were constantly getting stuck in the mud, having to take turns helping each other to press forward.
“As they continued walking, they came across this old lady who had three children with her and she was trying to cross from one side of the flash-flood that streamed through the village to the other with all three children in tow. The monks, without question, made it their problem and stopped to help the lady and the children cross to the other side. It was an extremely arduous task not to mention the dangers involved with the rush of fast moving water and mud. After the mother and her children were safely escorted, one by one, to the other side of the torrent that streamed through village, the two monks continued their journey.
“One of the monks was much older and more experienced. As an elder he was the father figure to the much younger and inexperienced monk-to-be. The younger had to follow his elder and learn all the ways of being a monk until he finally could become a monk himself. It would take years.
“The older monk was typically very quiet and spoke less than most other monks. He was extremely wise. As they walked together the younger monk had much to say about the woman and the kids trying to cross the river.
“‘Can you believe that? What if she would have drowned or what if one of the kids got hurt? Or worse!” bemoaned the younger.
“‘Hmm,” was all the older monk could muster as they continued to pull themselves up from the mud.
“‘I mean we literally risked our lives for her. Those kids, you, any one of us could have lost our lives!” he continued.
“As they navigated the dangerous terrain, slippery mud, and threatening torrent, the younger monk never let up. As they reached the part of the palace where only the elder monks were allowed to live, the elder monk turned to face the younger monk who was still going on about the dangers that they encountered with the careless mother and her children.
“‘I dropped them off back in the village. It seems you still carry them with you,” said the elder monk as he walked away.”
Me: “Hmm.”
I mention this story because I realized that after 24 years, I still carried this stupid thing with me and DAILY at that. I never once sat it down! Fuck what a waste of time and mental energy coupled with cognitive resources that could have been spent on more important things!
So, as I was driving, I spent many weeks which became months wondering if I should call my mother and tell her that I forgive her for abandoning me. After 20 years I figured she would be so happy to hear this. I picked up my cell phone three times over the next two weeks and pulled up her name, saved as Melanie, not MOM, but never actually hit CALL. I readily admit that it hurts not having a contact saved as MOM to lean on.
The hot dry weather of Colorado became windy and full of colors until finally winter set in. The holidays came and went as did the voice of Elvis singing “Blue Christmas” and a depressed Charlie Brown, and yet I still had not called my mother. As the New Year rolled around I knew I had to make a decision one way or another and put this behind me before yet another year came and went. I had been thinking about calling and forgiving her for almost 6 months now.
Of course, it was an easy decision to make. Call mom and say “I forgive you and I love you.”
Thank you for reading.
The End.
Think Dragon.
But things are not that easy for me.
The part I kept getting stuck on was weather or not I was calling her to actually forgive her or if I was doing it just so I could share yet another story about my personal growth and humbleness to my friends.
“You see, with forgiveness. . .” I would begin.
I had to think about this for several more days to make sure that I was not doing just that. If I was going to call my mother and tell her I was sorry I hadn’t spoken to her but a handful of times over the past 20 years, I really needed to make sure I meant it. Sure, I could just do it for her sake, but, again, I don’t do things like that. If I say something or do something it has to be sincere. I did not want to call her and forgive her if I really didn’t give a shit.
Then I was faced with another problem - what if she hasn’t even once thought about that day since it happened? I mean, what if over the past 20 something years it never occurred to her that it was that single moment that had the greatest (and worst) effect on our relationship? What if she had no idea that it was that singular moment in time that made me absolutely hate that fucking bitch. Fucking cunt!
No, I couldn’t actually call her and apologize because it would probably go something like this:
“Hey, Bubba. There you are. How’s it going?”
“Oh, it’s good. Just on my way to work?” (Don’t have long.)
“You working a lot? Is it cold up there?” (Just wanting to talk when I don’t have time.)
“Yeah, I’m driving so I can’t talk long. I just wanted to tell you something.” (Quickly.)
“Ok, Bubba, What is it?”
“Well, you remember when you and Jamie and Nicole left and moved out of that apartment when I was in highschool? The power was off and I had nowhere to go, no job, no money, nothing to eat? (TRIGGERED) and you just fucking left? Do you remember? Do you really remember actually fucking leaving me when you could have just taking me with you? What the fuck where you concentrating on so goddamn hard that you forgot about me? I mean, unless I was lied to my whole life, I am your son, correct? Because if I am not this would be a really good fucking time to tell me!”
Yeah, I don’t think I could actually call and keep myself composed long enough to forgive her. But, the more I thought about it over the next few days, it occured to me that I actually could do it. We have been texting and talking on the phone for a couple of months, especially now, as always happens when people decide to grow up, that her mom (my grandmother, of course) is not doing well at all. We talk and she always concludes with, “well, you know how much I love you, Bubba.”
Let me stress that I absolutely HATE being called Bubba. That’s not my goddamn name!
But it actually doesn’t seem to bother me like it used to. The more I traversed these thoughts, navigated our phone calls and texts, and finally managed to call her first and tell her that I love her without being prompted, the more I realized that the time was right for forgiveness.
Almost.
What if I brought up how much being abandoned by my mother pissed me off over the years, how that anger turned to hurt, and how I actually had to have several sessions with my therapist that were very trying for both of us, just to get me to a point to where I could talk about it openly in a conversational format with him instead of just mumbling and holding my head down? What if I brought up how I thought that a mother should never abandon her child like she did several times since I was 11 years old? What if I brought all this up and did so in a respectable manner so that I could apologize and share a few tears with her and tell her how much I love her? What if I did all this and it only hurt her in some way? More importantly, what if I am the one who needs to be forgiven? Maybe I wasn’t a good son?
“Through hard work and kindness to others do we stand our best chance at living our best life.” Buddha.
I think that instead of telling her all is forgiven I will just continue to talk to her and tell her that I love her. Afterall, I have made more mistakes than anyone. If you doubt that then we should have a sit-down sometime.
sincerely,
Bubba.
