Posts tagged ‘mother’
Worthless and unwanted
Effectively, I was raised to believe I was utterly worthless and unwanted. On the one hand, I knew with absolute certainty that my Dad loved me, but because he was a bully, and I was so shocked his treatment of his wife and adopted son, I could not relax when he hugged me, nor could I initiate a hug. He never ever acknowledged his own behaviour, so I was never able to clear the air with him, even as an adult.
For my mother’s part, I was 24 before I discovered that she didn’t just hate me; she had a very poor opinion of many other people as well – so at least I stopped looking for ways to please her. I was in my 30′s when it finally dawned on me that I am the child of a man she hates and wishes she had never met.
I realise that she did not set out to hate me as well, but it happened anyway. If someone hits you with their car, it really doesn’t matter whether it was an accident or they did it deliberately – the injuries are just as real.
My parents were both angry people. It was quite easy to get into trouble for nothing more than happening to be in the room when one of them was in a bad mood.
My father had a hot temper that would flare up in 2 seconds flat over nothing whatsoever. He would then rant and rave for a while, then stalk off. When he was angry I took care to keep a room’s width between us, and an escape route behind me. It didn’t dare let him get close enough to grab me – he was a fit man, and very strong. There were times that I needed to use that escape route, and would end up on the footpath trembling with anger, and fear, and humiliation.
My mother’s anger was cold, and poisonous. When my mother went crook at me, she didn’t stop with whatever imagined wrong I had committed, but listed all the dreadful things I had done for the last 10 years. In other words, in her eyes, I was just a nasty, wicked child, who could never do anything right.
I was 30 years old before she finally found one nice thing to say about me (she said I was good with colours – yay!). Some time later she managed to come out with a second compliment, but I forget what it was. Shortly before we left Brisbane (I was 41 by then), she actually apologised for something! She said I was right to have managed my garden the way that I had, and she was sorry for having made disparaging remarks many years ago. Really! as if the garden was an issue – compared with everything else.
I have not spoken to her for several years by now. For some time I had been thinking that if she had been any other person (other than my mother), people would have been asking me why I continued to associate with her. They would have been pointing out that every time I was around her, I became tense and anxious. Yet, just because she gave birth to me, people have generally said “but she’s your mother – she loves you really”.
It finally occurred to me that not all mothers have given birth (adoptive mothers, foster mothers), and not all women who give birth are mothers. A mother is someone who loves their children, and wants their lives to be happy and fulfilling. My mother has never been at all interested in my well-being, and has generally poured cold water on anything I was happy about or interested in. She was forever putting me down for one thing or another.
What with her constant criticism, the angry diatribes, and her general refusal to help me with anything while I was growing up, along with the fact that I couldn’t derive any comfort from my father either, essentially, I ended up feeling that I was utterly worthless and unwanted. So I married a man who treated me the same way, then joined a religion that also proceeded to treat me in similar manner (with occasional exceptions).
December 11, 2011
My father was a demi-god
I loved my Dad. I think I got frozen in the stage where small children think their father is a demi-god. Certainly, I always felt that the sun rose and set at my father’s command. Even when I was grown up, and had long since realised, of course, that this was simply not true, a central part of me continued to feel that way anyhow.
However, my relationship with my father was extremely problematic. I was born on the other side of the Great Divide, in a small town called Gulgong, where Henry Lawson lived for a while. My father was a lay preacher at the time.
When I was one year old, my parents moved to Dunbible, a small community a few miles south of Murwillumbah, on the northern coast of New South Wales. We lived on a banana plantation. My mother says she had no idea what to do with small children, so she left me to run around on my own for most of the day, with just the chickens for company.
But sometimes my dad would let me tag along with him in the plantation, and sometimes his mates from neighbouring plantations would come over to help out; I have always preferred the company of men – after all, my earliest friendly companions were men.
When I was 4 years old, my mother suddenly left my father, taking us kids with her. My father had gone into town for supplies, and my mother spent some time watching out the window; perhaps she was waiting to see if he was coming back for anything he had forgotten. Then she suddenly started rushing around packing a suitcase.
I can’t remember how much I said out loud, or whether it was just thoughts in my head, but I do clearly remember wondering why my Dad wasn’t coming with us. Why weren’t we packing his clothes? he was wearing his everyday clothes; he wasn’t dressed for plane travel. I could imagine how he would feel when he got home and found us gone; he’d be devastated.
Add comment June 7, 2011