Warning: This post is not going to be entirely sweet or sentimental. This is going to be brutal, and probably a little sad at most parts. If you want a happy Mother’s Day post, this is not one of them. To those of you who do read this, thank you. To those who move on, I hold nothing against you. Mostly because I won’t really know, but, you know. Just putting that out there. Onward!
I fucking hate mother’s day, and I am not sorry for it at all.
I was raised by my grandparents and my mother. My mother has done a few pretty great things for me, like paying for my medical treatment when I was younger, or taking my family on trips, or working very hard to get us our own house to live in. And I appreciate all that stuff, I do. However, my medical struggles through my life has made her resent me for being her sick child, and became about how stressful it is for her, turning her into a martyr. Our family trips were always ruined by my mother’s short temper, control issues, and lack of ability to handle anything going slightly different then planned. Our house became no better than my grandparents’, because we soon learned that she was exactly like her own father, and rather than escaping him, it only amplified her rage.
For a long while, as in, the first 16 years of my life, I wanted nothing more than to have my mother love me, accept me, and want me. However, no matter what I did, I was never good enough, and was always a bitch or a disappointment. She would drive me to school every morning, and within that short six minute drive would somehow manage to break me down, sending me to school with tears streaming down my face. My mother beat my self esteem into the ground, then filled the hole with concrete so that it could never get out. She has done this to all three of her children, but for some reason, it was always the worst with me. I’m assuming because I was the most rebellious and didn’t go along with all the bullshit like my siblings did. I was never a bad child, but I did learn very early that just because someone is older than you, does not mean they will automatically do the right thing. Life is not that simple and questioning my mother never ended well. When I got older, and she constantly reminded me that I was a burden on my family and that I was worthless, I finally conceded and stopped looking for her approval and acceptance. I gave up trying to be what she wanted, because what she wanted was not only impossible, but also not who I wanted to be.
The closest thing I have to maternal figures in my life have always been my sister and my grandmother. Both are incredibly strong women who have been through far more pain and trauma than my mother ever has, yet somehow, they still manage to be kind, loving, and selfless to the people they love. My grandmother always protected me from the rage of my grandfather and my mother, and was the one who dried my tears. When we got older, while I cried and my mother ignored me or screamed at me to stop, my sister would make me home made chicken soup, and while I laid on my stomach and wished I was dead, she would rub my back to take away the pain, and stayed there until I fell asleep.
I may not have the best mother. But I do believe a mother is more than someone who just pops out a child. A mother is someone who loves, who protects, who guides, and who helps the other person get through this rough thing called life. Being a parent is a title you earn, not just by having children, but by acting as what a parent should be. Parents constantly demand respect from their children, but they must learn that they have to earn ours, just as we earn theirs. I have always found it interesting that our parents many times treat us as the biggest problems and burdens in their lives, yet we had no choice in whether we were born or not. We were their decision, they were not ours. It may be sad, but just because some people are physically capable of having children, does not mean they should. Likewise, those who cannot physically have children are not always meant to be childless. The world is kind of silly that way.
The person I love with all my heart, who I do hope to marry one day, does not have parents either. Truthfully, it does make me a bit sad that our children will not really have grandparents, or that I will never have a mother-in-law. But that being said, it certainly does not make people like my grandmother, sister, or his grandparents who raised him, any less important. It does not make all they have done for us lesser because they aren’t our mothers. Our family may not be a clean and tidy standard family, but it does have love and a ton of goodness. And I’d trade that over a shitty mother and father any day. You can count on that.
I think Mother’s Day always brings a little stab to my heart, my boyfriend’s heart, and to all other people like us. Even though we’ve come to terms with the fact that our parents failed us, and that we’ve learned to cope with it, it still stings a little. Therefore, this morning I have decided that until I can have my adopted babies, and am everything to them that I believe a mother should be, every Mother’s Day my boyfriend and I will do something wonderful for ourselves, and let the people who raised us know how valuable they truly are. We will celebrate our little family, and we will have love.
I know, I know. The holiday is just a greeting card holiday, and really doesn’t matter. And that may be so. But the things it makes me feel, both the sorrow and the adoration for the good people in my life, does matter. It matters a lot.
Happy Mother’s Day to all the good mothers, the soon to be mothers, and the men and women who took the role of a mother without expecting anything back for it, and who made those they love never feel resented for it. Thank you for being what we need.
Hey mom, there’s something in the back room.
I hope it’s not the creatures from above.
You used to read me stories,
As if my dreams were boring,
We all know conspiracies are dumb.