It’s been a while since I blogged. There’s a lot happening – work, mothers, therapy, and more surgery at the end of the month. Just the usual basket of fun. My therapist says I should try to take these things one at a time, which isn’t my natural inclination. So I thought I’d try something new and tackle things slowly here.
I got my haircut and a new colour (chocolate) last weekend. I know, I know… how is this of any interest to you when you can’t even see me? Well, let me tell you another story…
I spent some time with my FOO last the weekend, which is always a mind numbing, crazy-making experience. My parents live just over an hour’s drive away on the coast, so my visits always – ALWAYS – involve an overnight stay.
Sometimes I don’t know why I do it to myself – particularly when the first comments I hear uttered from my parents’ mouths are that my new hair (which is only slightly darker than it was) makes me look “fatter” and “like a corpse”. Ok, the usual warm greeting. Going well, so far.
To make my time with them seem worthwhile I set myself the challenge of talking to my mother again. My therapist helped me think this through and we talked about why I was reluctant – what was I afraid of? I had no idea. My mother and I have had a “close” relationship in the past, I had supported her endlessly in recent times, so what was I really, honestly afraid of? I still couldn’t answer that question.
At first I lost all the courage and strength I’d mustered (and my therapist had helped me build). I wasn’t sure why, and I still didn’t know what I was afraid of. I got grumpy and beat myself up right royally for it (metaphorically speaking).
On Sunday Mum and I went to the gallery. Afterwards she muttered something about what else we might do seeing as I “didn’t want to go home yet”. What? Did I hear her correctly? Did she really understand that I didn’t want to be around my father? Wow… I was speechless and basically just burst into tears. (I am world champion at that these days.)
So, we drove to one of the nearby cafés (mango gelato – yum!). It wasn’t a long drive but the whole time I was choking back tears, trying to hide them as they slid down my cheeks – and trying not to sniff too much. (I’m getting much better at driving when my eyes are filled with tears. Really, I am.)
We arrived at the café and I pulled into the car park. I asked Mum if she had a tissue because the snot factor was approaching crisis point. She said “have you got a cold?” I said: “No, Mum, I’m crying” and burst into tears again.
“For God’s sake Mum,” I said, “do you even give a sh*t? My life is falling apart here, do you give a rat’s?”
“Of course I care,” she said. WOW. I never knew. I’m serious. I never really knew. She has perfected the ice queen routine to such a degree that I honestly didn’t know that she cared. Not until my therapist told me she did, after the session my Mum came to, and after she said so herself. WOW.
Mum also uttered something about “getting over it” or “snapping out of it” – I can’t remember her words, but it’s the usual sentiment. Brave me said “Geez, Mum, don’t you think I would if I could?”
So, we went for ice cream. I came home with a skirt (which I’ll probably never wear – I haven’t worn a skirt since about 1979, when I was just 9 years old) and a new pair of boots. 🙂
Afterwards she talked to me about “forgetting about him (my father)” and “keeping a lid on things”. Ugh. I’ve been doing that for the last 38 years – look where it’s got me???
I also mustered the courage to ask her to come back to see my therapist. She said “I thought I was done with all that.” Ha ha ha. Not on your life, sister! 😉
But, in the end she agreed. So now I have a second session scheduled for my mother and me. I’m a little conflicted about this. Part of me is skipping around saying “Look at me! Look what I did!” – and the other part is saying “Oh my goodness gracious me – what are you doing??” (or a much less polite variant of this theme)
My therapist has previously said it would be good to get Mum back in – so she can “have a go” at her, in a nice way (my therapist’s words).
Now, as if I haven’t achieved enough, my therapist asks me to think about what I want from the session. What do I want to ask Mum? What do I want from her? Hmmm….
Oh dear. What have I done?