November 30, 2002
Mother's Night
My mother is both a remarkable and maddening woman. I don't bother to explain to other people anymore why I rationalize her irrational actions, or why I generally hold my tongue when she is scolding me for having done absolutely nothing wrong. I say that I love and respect her. But it's more than that.
She's suffered, and manages yet to smile and forget for a while. She's a thousand times stronger and braver than I am. Her parents, who tried their damndest to fuck her up for good, couldn't manage it. She recovered, and with the help of my father, raised two children who will never know the kind of pain that she did, who will never thoroughly understand her because of it.
We never fight about reality. We fight about her worries, her paranoias, her hopes and her dreams. Most times I sit there quietly, and try to think of something outside the current sphere, try to pretend I'm not in the car, that there isn't alternate silence and bemoaning the fact that I'm just a "stupid girl." Sometimes, rare times, I open my mouth in defense, and spout things she won't listen to, things that will only later be thrown back in my face.
When she isn't yelling, I trust her. That's usually a mistake.
I think, yesterday, she heard me.
I told her that I couldn't care about what she thinks anymore, because she doesn't care what I think. I told her that it doesn't matter to me what she says, because what I say doesn't matter. I told her, however inadvertently, that she was crazy.
I wanted to tell her that I miss my Mom, the one that listens and understands. I wanted to tell her that I'm in love and it's wonderful and she should be happy for me. I wanted to tell her that she can't make people feel guilty for having emotions. I wanted to tell her that I loved her and appreciated her more than I can express, but I can't go about signing things like that in blood or quoting specific incidences where I've shown so.
She listened, though, and heard even those things I did not allow to grace my lips. She came in my room this morning at some ill-defined hour and apologized, profusely, and hugged me. I was half drugged with sleep but hugged her back, tightly, and told her I loved her.
My mom doesn't usually apologize. That's my dad.
She meant it.
And even if we fight again soon, which we probably will, I'll know that she loves me. I'll know that she isn't too disappointed in me to reflect upon the things I say. I'll know that she trusts me, at least a little, to make up my own mind. She shaped it all through my childhood. It's hardened into a knot of creativity and morals and dreams and wisdom gained from mostly observance; it's out of her reach. It is no longer mutable unless I allow it to be.
And I don't want to.
I think I've grown up by now, don't you?
astera at 11:10 a.m.