My cyberstalker is my mother — but it wasn’t always this way.
mothers and daughters
My daughter moves unabashedly through this world taking up as much space as she damn well pleases. I want to be like my 12-year-old daughter!
I didn’t see similarities between my mother and I until years later, after I became a mother. The constant conflict hid how my mother and I are alike.
She was a mother who couldn’t mother. Mental illness absorbed my mother’s maternal soul and left a hollow shell that morphed her.
Thanks to The Golden Girls, I was able to see those mother/daughter dynamics play out between two adults.
Did my mom feel alone, as if she were blamed for what happened to her? Like nobody could understand what she was dealing with?
When my mom died, I made a list of things that made me similar to her: My favorite color was purple, I liked to write, I loved reading, I adored cats, I didn’t wear makeup, my favorite soda was Pepsi, I lived in oversized sweaters. I was 11, so I didn’t add “I love to drink” to the list, but it crosses my mind now whenever I’m at a bar with friends, and I decide to order a cocktail.
My mother and I may never see eye to eye on politics, and our value systems may seldom align. Sometimes it feels like we try to breach this divide; other times we dig a deeper rift.
Don’t you all see how fun this is? I wanted to cry out. Instead, I whispered, “Yeah, b-b-books are weird,” and hid Junie B. Jones in my backpack. My classmates treated books the way I sometimes treated Girl Scout girls: with cold, eight-year-old contempt.
A breakup, Mom, a cheerleading competition, and Valentine's Day...