I wasn't shocked today to hear that a thousand fires were burning in California, or when I learned of an old classmate who died in his sleep early last month. What shocked me today was my reaction when my child declared she'd rather spend the day alone at her dad's place, than with me at mine.
She wasn't angry, there was no fight, it was simple: I wanted her here but she wanted to be there, and suddenly without warning, a stream of missiles were unleashed and headed my way.
Rejection from above,
boom! Abandonment from below,
boom! Failure as a mother,
boom! But the biggest explosion came when I realized the rejection I felt from my daughter was no different than the rejection I'd felt from my father, from my mother, my brothers, my friends and from lovers. It was all one big thing, my own creation, a manifestation of a lifetime of beliefs.
I've been accused of being so sensitive that I cry when the sun comes up, and although that's a gross exaggeration, I
do have easy access to my feelings and to their tears. But today was out of the ordinary even for me, because after saying goodbye to Annie, I retired to my bedroom and proceeded to cry for hours--I couldn't stop.
I waited for answers, I waited for a sign, I waited for my period but it didn't come. I knew there was a lesson, because the intensity of emotion just didn't fit the crime.
I've never been wrapped up in my identity as a mother, I've never concerned myself with whether or not my child loves me--I only know I love her
. I've never understood why people complain about their children's growing independence or the inevitable
Empty Nest Syndrome when they finally go off to college. Surely these are
good things--kids spreading their wings, parents reclaiming a bit of lost freedom. But I suppose they've just been concepts to me, until today.
Annie recently said, "I love you
now Mom," implying that she might not love me later. And when I told her I accepted that, I thought I really did. But this morning, after finding myself curled up in a blubbering ball on the bed, maybe I need to question how much I
don't accept.
What became the trigger on a loaded gun was actually something simple and benign. All Annie wanted was to be
there when I wanted her to be
here. My mother wanted to be at the theatre, my father wanted to write his books, a man I dated wanted to be alone, and a man I loved wanted to stay where he was.
"People have their lives," my mom sometimes reminds me. Her message being that when I don't get what I want, it's bigger than my perceived inadequacies and deficiencies. It's not about my lack of knowledge or because I'm a mediocre cook, it's not about what I don't possess or can't provide, and it's not about my thighs because it's not about me.
When Annie said she wanted to stay at her dad's, I made up stories and turned nothing into weapons. When Annie said she wanted to stay at her dad's, I saw the faces of everyone who ever hurt me. When Annie said she wanted to stay at her dad's, she gave me a gift--and I knew once the fire was out, it would be delivered.
... I heard this poem:
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