« Trace Doesn’t Wanna Write It »
As of this writing, my mom isn’t dead. And neither am I. Well, not yet, of course. And I don’t mean that in any sort of an ominous way; it’s just that I had planned to avoid writing about her until one or the other of those natural eventualities grimly advanced the timeline.
Similarly, I had long postponed the consideration of my relationship with my dad, waiting to write about it until after he had died; however, my counselor has suggested that I should delve into the “mom project” now, as the environment here has reached critical proportions, or the crisis here has reached environmental proportions... neither of which warning signs should be allowed to wander about unsupervised.
That timeliness imperative felt like a solid observation on her part, and good advice.
So, heeding those shadows on the dosimeter badge, I did manage to get myself started; however, I found myself stuck on the detailed pros and cons of risking that writing right now (or not), instead of my spending any contemplative and revelatory time truly addressing the dangerous topic itself.
The obvious question: what was I so worried about?
I mean, what was the worst that could happen?
I needed those answers, so I worked all the way through the associated risk analysis, as well as through a variety of focus-preservation snacks. Whenever I would read the resulting argument all the way to its conclusion, I would find myself to be in favor of writing. I’d begin to move on, and start in on the new material... but then I'd just circle right back up to the top of this inquiry, which used to begin with (approximately) “My mom isn’t dead (yet).”
That analysis continued to grow, until it could no longer function as a concise contextualizer leading into my mom’s story, and I finally ended up having to calve it off into this separate chapter.
So here it sits. This is what I have been going through... repeatedly.
Yes, it did need to be worked out before I could be ready to write. And while I still don’t feel entirely sanguine about the consequences, at least now I can make some informed decisions that might mitigate some of the possible harm.
So, all in all, things should turn out fine... better than they have been.
But, still...
Maybe, just one last time, I should read it through from the top.
You know... just to be safe.
* * *
What?
That ticking sound? Oh, no worries... that’s just the ratchets on the roller coaster.
Isn’t the view simply gorgeous from up here? All those treetops and... hmmm, hold on now. Wait a sec. I see a gigantic, outside loop right over there with a gap in the tracks. That’s not a part of this ride, is it?
Shut up! I was so paying attention, but...
But you know what? I’ve changed my mind. I’m just gonna raise this safety bar, clamber out in an ungainly panic, and walk back down the evacuation stairs. That’s what they’re there for, aren’t they?
Okay, so, now... where’s the release button?
What do you mean, “You can’t unlock it from the inside”? That’s not funny!
Really, you all just go on ahead without me and, uh, well, you know... have fun. That’ll be much better for everyone; after all, you know how I get when I can’t escape, right? No need for me to spoil things with a...
(Aiyaaa, no escape! Come onnn, unlock you bastard! Let me offa this thing!)
...meltdown.
And you’re not even on the ride with my family... you’re just watching.
* * *
So that’s part of the problem: I can clearly see gaps in the tracks.
Here’s one:
When my mom read my previous book, she told me to remove a story (or face the consequences) in which I described an event that I had observed with my grandparents. She associated that passage with a memory that was unpleasant for her, so she wanted to suppress my memory of it (and hide it from the very few people who might ever read about it); periodically, she would reiterate her disappointment over my display of indiscretion, and question the depth of my loyalty and filial affection, after all that she has done for me and my brother (ungrateful children that we are).
It wasn’t enough for her to just ignore that bit. It had to not exist. She blithely assumed that our relationship entitled her to the right of editorial control over my writing (and my life).
That was 10 years ago, and I’m still hearing about it.
So that little spell of transparency on my part triggered distinctly painful consequences for a long time to come.
* * *
Here’s another gap: if I finish writing this while she is still alive, then she will see it, even if I try to hide it.
The risk of this material making its way into her hands might seem low to you, but much stranger coincidences than that influence my life on a regular basis; in other words, I could plonk (a) this likelihood right down onto the bar next to (b) an inevitability and no one would be able to tell the difference between the two... or maybe even between them and (c) the beer nuts.
(Me: “ABCD beer nuts?” “Abey: LMNO beer nuts.”)
Okay, so maybe a bar wouldn’t be the best place to expect people to make a finely resolved comparison like this; nonetheless (and my figurative language choices notwithstanding), that equation leads us directly to a cost/benefits risk analysis:
Cost: This material will bring my mom significant sadness, at the very least.
Cost: This is not behavior that she has ever been able to change, so she will receive no wellness offset for her pain.
Cost: I will be punished for causing her the discomfort associated with not ignoring the abuse.
Benefit: If that chapter is written well, though, then I will come to a clear understanding of the dynamic that holds between me and my mother, including the mechanics of the trauma that still affect my behavior. (I did get that sort of benefit from writing my dad’s story.)
Benefit: If I achieve that understanding, then I might also be able to heal myself in part, as might some other people who have lived with this trauma.
Benefit: If I heal some of my stuff, then I might not tend to present as much of a risk of harm to others.
As with my dad’s story, it is this set of benefits for other people that persuades me to pay the costs. It is the healing, and the lowered risk of harm, that provides the actual therepautic value, and not the venting. Note, however, that while the costs are certainties, the benefits are all conditionals.
I won’t know until the chapter has been written whether it will ever be likely to provide the benefits that would be needed to outweigh these costs.
And if that doesn’t seem viable, then I will erase it.
* * *
Now, don’t get me wrong: venting certainly has its place (often near the cloaca). I have written elsewhere about the value of relying on a pressure release valve, as compared to gestating a bomb.
In this case, the comprehensive exception to my silence is when I complain to Jeff. “Your mother,” is generally how those conversations begin, which (after however long) tend to end with that time-honored quote from The Angry Beavers (S1:E7, “Bugaboo”):
Can’t... drink anymore... must sleep now.
It’s not just that we grew up in the same household, or had occasion to return to the nest a couple of times in our adult lives. Over the years, for both of our families, there have been longer periods of more intense overlap with my folks; in fact, for a while, everyone was living under the same roof (i.e., our parents, Jeff’s family, and mine).
About a decade ago, my folks had been sharing a home with Jeff’s family in Wyoming, then they moved out to Oregon to live with mine (about which more in the new chapter); at that time, Jeff offered me some aromatically sage advice. I remember the precise wording as clearly as if it were yesterday. He said to me, he said, “No backs.”
(Brings a tear to one’s lazy eye.)
I don’t need that sort of material to be the focus of the chapter. I don’t need to complain there.
* * *
On top of everything else, the source material is a daunting mess; for example, I can’t tell that functionally therapeutic version of our story without identifying the similarities in my grandmother’s abusive behavior, and how that deeply affected us all. I would also need to talk – albeit with compassion – about the decisions that my mom made as a very young wife and mother, and the pervasive patterns that ensued (to this day). I would have to reveal the ways in which she hurt us, so that I could address and understand how we continue to be traumatized, and explore what we might be able to do about that.
I won’t settle for a statement of admiration for the problem.
My fervent hope is that my mom will understand that I am not blaming. This is not her fault. When she reads that chapter, she is going to want to crawl into a hole and pull it in after herself; however, I hope that she won’t do that.
We understand. We forgive. She is as much a victim as the rest of us.
And yes, I know that some people use their trauma as an excuse for bad behavior, and as a justification for a failure to change (or even try). That’s not what I intend. I want to understand why some of us dedicated ourselves early on to ending the cycle of abuse, and not pass it on to our children. I want to know whether my mom (n)ever tried. And why.
Were there successes that I failed to notice?
I want to know what more I can be doing to further that goal.
Plus, I just wish that life could have been better for her. While I’m not one to dwell on past hurts and injustices (other than to help avoid repeating mistakes), I do have some hope that the future can be brighter.
* * *
I can’t guarantee that things will look any better on the other side of the Memorial Cesspit Dive and Chili Cookoff, but we can be confident that no healing benefit will accrue from continuing to hide all of that information.
Yes, there are good parts as well, and I will also talk about those in balance. But I don’t have to worry about the consequences of saying nice things to my mother.
So, everything considered, I guess that I’d better get to it.
Time to break the silence.
2023-06