Mother's Day
Some Mothers Die Twice
Every one has a mother. Mine died twice.
She died emotionally before I was born and literally
at the age of 50. She had been trying to physically
die from before the moment of my birth. She did it
slowly in increments and degrees throughout my whole
life until she finally succeeded in our mutual last
breath of trying to keep her alive.
I often talk about my parents, to students and clients. I want them to know there
is life after dysfunction. I have often gotten a pit of shame in my stomach as
I speak of my parents in class. It’s the same shame every child of dysfunction
gets when they speak of their past – as if the shame was theirs. Since
they are both dead, I also wonder if I am not a bit afraid my parents are watching
me from some place on high and wincing as I speak. Fortunately, I have good boundaries
and know that is their problem. They have been gone a long time, no doubt had
a few classes, so by now they know it too.
Every Mothers and Fathers Day I am delighted to celebrate these two scoundrels.
It is so clear to me that I could never have become who I am without them. My
mother, Nell, was an alcoholic who smoked and drank herself into numbness, beginning
in her teens. She lacked the courage for on-going life or sudden death. Instead,
she continued drinking until she finally reached variations of apathy, stupor,
rage and depression, or all of the above in the same tearful evening, over and
over between Librium’s. These were the nights that could be viscerally
felt making their approach by 5:30p.m. That is, unless, she was in a precious,
but regrettably infrequent, window of being utterly delightful, fantastically
fun, incredibly funny and real. These few and far between windows of opportunity
that debuted her potential were always fleeting and left only longing for more
in their wake. So you might wonder what on earth I would celebrate about Nell
this mothers day. Everything!
My mother died spiritually and emotionally before I was born and physically when
I was 32. With the exception of a few cameo appearances, she was not a mom in
my life. She never tucked me in, made my dinner, called to ask me to lunch or
shared in the joy of my children. When I was five, at a time when we had nothing,
she tore up her prized squaw skirt to make my sister and I a doll dress for Christmas.
And when I was 25 after my divorce a black negligee arrived with a note from
her that said, "So start living again" - these were the only two gifts
from my mother. No mother taught me how to deal with money, be a woman, hold
a child or create safety or love for myself. No one taught me how to be on my
own side and make decisions and choices in my own best interest.
Until I became an adult and could see beyond my own emptiness, I didn't have
the compassion to see that my mother was just like me. She had no tools. This
precious woman taught me what it looks like when you don’t love yourself,
because she didn’t. She showed me how incredibly important being present
in someone’s life is because she wasn’t present in mine. She taught
me what happens when you don’t fight for your own life and when you let
yourself believe that your emotions, feelings and fears are bigger than you are.
She taught me compassion because I was able to love her even in her emptiest
moments. She taught me forgiveness because I finally understood she never got
what I expected from her, and therefore never had it to give. She literally unraveled
the whole issue of blame for me. I understood by loving my mother, that parents
are only able to give you what has been given to them – not an ounce more.
This coming mother's day I will celebrate my mother again. I thank her for allowing
that empty space in my life in which I could connect to the Universe and the
deepest parts of myself. I thank her for leaving so that I could learn about
staying. I honor her for never finding me, so I could find myself. With great
genuine love, I thank you mom. In some contract signed long before this lifetime,
we agreed to this dance and you did your part. You gave all you had and it was
everything I needed to be who I am.
WCC
May 2003
Dr. Dina Evan
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