Harsh Truths

When I think about the first thing I remember it’s this.

Three years old, on the couch, nestled into the cove of my mother’s chest and listening to her breath. Deep, slow exhausted inhalations earned from one of many night shifts at the nursing home. She always worked in the twilight hours, between multiple nursing jobs, but somehow, was always still around. I honestly believe she had the ability to teleport when the need arose.

She always smelled like this; not of any recognizable perfume, but of her natural maternal musk, slightly floral. Similar to that of a newborn baby. When she was at work, sometimes I’d put on her ugly cardigan, the thing she wore the most. I have it now, that cardigan. It doesn’t smell like that anymore.

When I think about her now my mind dances around our history, dark in so many parts, marred with so much pain, and balanced by so much joy and color. Where once there was only the warm glow of floral childhood was now something else, something often unspoken of.

This woman suffered. Through love and grief, broken trust and abuse. She is the most generous woman I know, and she paid for it in grit and heartache. The current that pulses through our patriarchal society rippled through her and left nothing but the bones of that irreverent bouquet from so many years ago.

I was forged by these uprooting moments in our life, and for much of it she was the one I resented. I was angry at those men who crashed through our lives giving so little, taking so much and leaving nothing but anguish, destruction and rage in their wake. But she suffered my long-term angst.

In my tumultuous teenage-hood I thought her weak and naïve for loving and suffering those less worthy of her heart. I hated and despised her oppression. Somehow, she was the one at fault, the one with the floral smell and warm glow.

Now I wish I’d championed her. I wish arose her and applauded her for standing strong, with five children in tow, each with troubled minds of their own. I wish I’d been supportive of her gentle heart and giving nature. Instead I held the wrong person accountable. She was the one manipulated, controlled and I blamed her.

I think this is very telling of the society we live in and the constructs that exist to repress the growth of womanhood. My mother was verbally, emotionally, financially and physically abused by multiple men and somehow I, and many others, acted as if she was at fault somehow. I really wish I could take that back.

Survivors of violence are resilient, brave and powerful voices. They encourage me to support those who have been touched by violence and to be proud of them and their courage.

My mother taught me so many things, but this of all her teachings was the most potent and it took me a long time to learn it.