“And I Don’t Pick Up when You Call Cause Your Voice Is a Gun” - Paramore

“I like to rebel against society's bullshit expectations. I just decided to become what everyone hates," I said to her.

"You mean, what your mom hates..." she replied.

Only two sessions into therapy and I've been owned.

I think that when we do things that are radical, like sell everything we own, conscientiously destroy our credit, eliminate every label in our closet, quit our careers, and move across the world, we would like to think that we know why we are doing it. But, typically these moves are made out of emotion and illogical thinking. We name it because we feel like we have to. So when people ask us why we did it, we can seem stable. When really, we are as unstable as it gets. I've written ten blogs about my mother. All of which have been deleted before being published. I felt like writing about her would give her power. Power that I no longer had the patience or ability to give to her. Power that she's had over me my entire life. Power that makes my voice small and my feelings invalid.

I was at lunch with my mom around early last year when I excitedly told her what I had been working on. I was planning on writing a book and I couldn't wait to show her. My mother, a damn good writer herself, would love it above anyone else. She would throw her arms around me, excited that I had inherited a strength she also had. She would praise my work and throw out ideas for chapters and characters. She was definitely going to congratulate me on a job well done. And maybe, just maybe, tell me she was proud of me. It's all I've ever wanted. To just have my mother proud of me. But, instead, she looked at me and gave me that same condescending smile I recognize from childhood and said, "It's cute." And then proceeded to change the subject.

"What do you think?" I said to her, anxious for her approval. This was it, this was the moment she would give me the approval I'd needed from her my whole life.

"It's a great way to get out your emotions," she said, "like a journal."

As I told her it was not my journal, it was a book I was writing, even though I had already said that, I knew in that moment that everything I was saying was falling on deaf ears. And she was not proud of me, she did not approve, and she was not going to congratulate me.

It's hard for me to say out loud that I feel like my mother is threatened by my success. When nothing I do in her eyes is successful. When no amount of blood, sweat, or tears would ever catch her attention. When her casual but strategic remarks make me feel like a complete failure. Even with all of that, I know that I am more than what she ever expected me to become. And, I'm sorry to say, twice the woman she has ever been. For years, my brain has been unable to comprehend how someone could be so disappointed in their child. When the last ten years has been a battle and struggle for her attention. Military service, bachelor's degree, marriage, big house, masters degree. None of it was ever going to be enough. So what's the point? When I started to realize this, I quit my job and started waiting tables, again. Not because I wanted to but because I was hell bent on becoming exactly what my mother sees me as. And I didn't realize, during that time, that I was still allowing her to control my life by doing just that. I was allowing myself to become exactly what she thought I was, in turn, letting her be right about me. When I was so much better than that. So much better than she's ever thought of me.

I've held my mother on a pedestal for as long as I can remember. What I remember about my mother is her work ethic, her love of travel and culture, and her independence. I never heard my mother obsess over men or marriage. I never saw her without a job. She usually worked more than one. And no matter how much money we didn't have, she was obsessed with getting me out of Texas. She wanted me to see everything. Horseback riding on the beach. Crab legs on a cliff in Monterey Bay. Margaritas in Cancún. Face painting at Scarborough Fair. To which we would sing all the way there.. "Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. Remember me to one who lives there. For once she was a true love of mine." I saw every musical, play, and symphony as a kid. And when I wanted to play any sport or any instrument, I was signed by within days. I really just remember a lot of laughing and playing. But the further away I get from my mother's presence, the further those memories become and the more clearly I see my mother for who she is. Who she has always been. Memories are funny that way.

My mother created an unattainable image of what she wanted me to be. So high in the sky, so astronomically unrealistic that I believe even she doesn't know when enough would be enough. This fictitious pinnacle of success that I could never achieve if I grew a horn or kissed a frog who turned into a prince. I have made a lot of mistakes in my life. I have taken the wrong path at times. I have hurt people. I have hurt my mom. But I take responsibility for all of it. Not a day goes by that I don't self-reflect to the point of obsession. Not a day goes by that I don't accept my mistakes as my own and beg for those to forgive me. But, there comes a point when no amount of begging, groveling, or apologies will be enough for someone. And even more so, there comes a point when you should no longer feel the need to apologize. How much grieving, how much groveling is enough? When can we release ourselves from the guilt and pain of our past decisions and move on to better days? When do we finally give up this perfection and these unattainable expectations put on us? And when do we walk away from the people who only want to remind us of how flawed we are?

That day, for me, was one year ago.

But today is the day that I release myself from the obsession with being the opposite of who I really am. I can stop trying to prove my mother right. Because, with her out of my life, I am now only hurting myself. This anger I haven't been able to let go of and this sadness I haven't been able to release comes from being so untrue to myself and trying to make a point to someone who has never been keen on wanting to get the point anyway. Over the last year, I have still been attempting to get my mother's attention. But rather, negative attention. I don't know how I didn't see it before. My ex-husband said to me once, "You have got to stop trying to impress your mother. She cannot be impressed. She is never going to give you what you want and she is never going to give you what you need." I have spent ten years of my life trying to impress my mother and another year trying to unimpress her. All of which was still about her. For her. And now I have to let go of her completely. Let go of her opinion of me. An opinion that is so wrong and unjust. And just be unapologetically me.

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