Every Pain, Everywhere, All at Once

It's been nearly a year since I last spoke to my mother. It isn't the first time that we've been estranged, but it is the longest. It feels like this time may be for good. I don't know how we come back from it. I don't know if I want to.

My mother and I have always had a tumultuous relationship. I have never really known why. As a child, I didn't feel like she was a particularly bad mother, but she never really seemed like a very good one either. When I realized I was queer, I think I realized I would never have the mother I wanted, let alone needed. As I've grown, I realized she was depressed a lot, and a lot of my "funny" childhood stories were actually stories of a child who probably should have been watched a little more closely. I started seeing my mom in a different light, especially after having my own children.

It's amazing what we'll put up with when the only person being hurt is ourselves. I remember making so many excuses for my mother when I was younger. I was proud of my mom for surviving what she had been dealt in her childhood. Her mother was an alcoholic for what seemed like my mother's whole life. I don't know the extent of any possible violence she may have experienced. She didn't talk about it, but I see signs that make me think there is a lot she doesn't talk about. She was raised with 5 siblings and lived through the tragic accidental shooting death of a 5-year-old brother. Her father retired from 2 good careers, but careers that kept him away from home. Even just with that information, the situation doesn't lend to developing healthy coping mechanisms.

I gave her a lot of grace for not being her mother. I understood why she had an explosive temper. I disappeared into books. I became an expert at walking on eggshells, reading body language and tone. I excused a lot of neglect, and a lot of coldness, believing very confidently that you can only try to do better than what you had. I defended her for a very long time. I loved her, she was all I knew, even though the reality was we didn't know anything about each other. I would hazard a guess that's true about a lot of children and parents.

As I became aware of who I was inside, the knowledge that I could not be that with the mother I had, also grew. It became a darkness inside of me. The thing that made me afraid that I would never be loved because of who I am. A queer girl that liked dark things in the deeply religious South. A core wound that so, so many people of my generation are carrying inside. A wound that never heals completely and reopens with the slightest of jabs. A wound that informs my fear that everyone will eventually learn something about me that crosses a line, and they will leave.

I counted the days until I could leave my parents house. I left as soon as I could. It took me a really long time to feel less alone, even when constantly surrounded by people. I am still surprised every year on my birthday that I have reached yet another age I never even dared to dream of seeing. It left me oddly at ease with aging because I find it so fascinating to have made it this far. Terrifyingly, I've met a lot of people with similar histories that feel the same way. That fact makes me so sad that so many others understand that feeling.

The catalyst for the final breakdown of my relationship with my mother was being a mother. Not having a child, mind you, but *being* a mother. I had pretty much raised my sister. Raising a child was not a challenge, but being a mother was an eye-opening experience. It became, as the years went on, the most beautiful, awe-inspiring, painful, and life-altering double-edged sword. One on hand, I realized how I felt about my children. How I could never fathom forming some of the words my mother had and spewing them in the direction of my children. And on the other hand, I could see how she was manipulating and snaking her particular brand of spite and nastiness into my children's lives. The fake concern, the two-faced behavior, the faux support, and secret phone calls to other relatives flatly undermining my children's understanding of themselves. I could let her hurt me, but something inside me snapped when it started happening to my kids. I drew a line. I made a boundary that she would have to start therapy if she wanted to stay in our lives. She hasn't spoken to me or my children since that day.

I have never once, in my children's lives looked at them as a disappointment. I have never once looked at them and seen anything but the most amazing thing I have ever done. I am not a perfect mother, and I do not claim to have perfect children. We are the messiest, most chaotic, rag-tag group of neurodivergent artist creators and none of us ever know where our shoes, phones, or the drinks we just had in our hands are at the same time. So, don't get me wrong, I am not here to bang on about how I did it all right. But I am here, to bang on about how I look at these beautiful, unique, brilliant, creative, individual souls that due to an infinite number of random chances came into being and happened to be my children and I just feel incredibly lucky that I get to witness their existence.

My oldest three are in their teens now, and I could not be more excited about getting to see who they are, and who they will be. Every single time they trust me with a truth about themselves, I feel like God whispered another universal secret in my ear. They are good and they are kind, and I've spent every day telling them too many times a day that I love them, and telling them I am so glad they exist. And incredibly they tell me those things too, almost just as much.

I absolutely cherish my relationship with my teens, but this past year, it's also been such a stark reminder of what I didn't and still don't and probably will never have with my mother. The more unconditionally I love my children, the more I am faced with the fact I wasn't worth that kind of love. The more I actively admire and am fascinated by the people my children are and are becoming, brings the realization that my mother doesn't want to know me. The absolute pride I have for these kind, brave, interesting, and incredible people shows me just how little I meant to my own mother. It's paralyzing sometimes, the conflicting feelings that hit at once. The intense connection and heartbreaking loss happening all at once.

Currently, Hollywood is going through a trend of movies where parents apologize to their kids. I've been about 15 years ahead of the curve on that one. I have spent my whole motherhood apologizing to my kids. I have been upfront with them from nearly the very beginning that I am only a person. I don't have all the answers. I'm never going to be perfect. But what I am going to do is apologize when I mess up, admit when I am wrong and be the best ally you will ever have. I will help you and I will forgive you and the best way to help me do that is, to be honest with me. We don't have a 100 percent honesty success rate, but I feel good about the actual numbers.

That being said, this past year, I have bawled through Encanto and sobbed through Turning Red, but nothing prepared me for Everything Everywhere All at Once. I have never publicly been triggered into a panic attack until I saw this movie in theatres. It is just now hitting streaming services, so I won't post any spoilers, but I will say you need to be prepared if you have parental abandonment issues. I didn't realize how much hurt I still have around my mother and this movie laid it wide open without warning, remorse, or apology.

Late last night, my seventeen-year-old, woke me up to talk about a girl. He was so worried he'd broken a girl's heart by not returning the same kind of feelings she had shared with him. It's not the first time he's woken me up to talk to me about his feelings and even show me messages he's nervous about or doesn't know how to respond to. I'm honored every time. My oldest girl is a queer activist that has already secured a professional theatre internship at 14 and we bond on fighting for social issues and overcoming our fears. My middle child is thoroughly non-binary and trying on new names and is already catching the eye of professional artists with their talent and can bake better than most adults. At 13, I'm already sure they're gonna create some amazing things. I tell my kids they are cooler than me, and they respond that I'm silly. We legitimately enjoy hanging out with each other and they encourage me to follow my dreams as much as I do them. My mother will never know this kind of love. She'll never really know her own children. She'll never look at a fully grown child she's raised and just feel so incredibly grateful that she got to be a part of that journey and that also breaks my heart.

I'm not exactly sure what the point of this article ended up being. I'm not sure what I set out to say, but hopefully, someone else will read it, and feel a little less alone. I feel that, as a culture, we're going through something big. I see a lot of people talking about being cycle breakers or ending generational trauma cycles, which from what I can tell just means going to therapy and talking with our kids about our feelings and validating theirs, actually listening and believing they are the only experts on who they are. It gives me a lot of hope for future generations. Maybe one day, stories of parents admitting they were wrong won't be so cathartic to whole generations of kids who feel like they were never heard.