Earlier this week I celebrated what would have been my mother's 79th birthday. She died much too soon at the age of 72. I celebrate her life this time of year, and always. But what I find to be increasingly true over time, is the fact that she is still much very alive in my life, and she continues to teach me. Because she is alive in me and in each of my four sisters, I cannot help but see her in my daily life -- in the good things, and the bad things. In the memories that make up my life and that made me who I am. In habits and funny French phrases and even the silly meals my sisters and I make.
When I was little, my parents split up. I was at that age where your parents are God, and my mother was my whole world, because she was my primary caretaker. I very much needed solid ground to walk on, but there was a constant shifting beneath my feet. Though I did not consciously know it at the time, my mother was depressed and dealing with severe anxiety. Looking back, I know I knew this in every cell of my being. Part of me wanted her to get over it, and to be my mom. And another part wanted to mother her, protect her. Instinctively I tried to extend to my mother what I myself most needed: comfort, love and protection.
When I was little, my parents split up. I was at that age where your parents are God, and my mother was my whole world, because she was my primary caretaker. I very much needed solid ground to walk on, but there was a constant shifting beneath my feet. Though I did not consciously know it at the time, my mother was depressed and dealing with severe anxiety. Looking back, I know I knew this in every cell of my being. Part of me wanted her to get over it, and to be my mom. And another part wanted to mother her, protect her. Instinctively I tried to extend to my mother what I myself most needed: comfort, love and protection.
Sitting next to her on her bed one day, me barefoot with legs swinging, not touching the ground, and she folding some laundry, I leaned my whole body against her side and announced, in that melodramatic but earnest five year old sort of way, "I love you very very very much, Mommy." She turned to me, distractedly. "I love you too, honey." I lifted my head and turned to face her square on. "Nooooo.. you DON'T understand.. I love you very very very very VERY VERY much!!" Part of me felt devastation that this was simply not sinking in. She looked at me and laughed and said "I know." But in that moment I felt she didn't know. I am sure this argument, silly though it was, went on for some time until she managed to skoot me out of the room and distract herself with more laundry. But I never lost that sense of her importance to me. I realize as small children our mothers are our whole lives, but our connection was so intense and deep throughout my life, whether that was a good or bad thing.
We struggled to differentiate from one another, but I was the baby of the family and the child she seemed least willing to let go. In my early teens I was hospitalized for "separation anxiety" and my therapists thought it was my mother I was too attached to. But when I finally started the very important process of individuation, I felt her pulling me under. Not because she didn't love me or didn't want me to have a healthy life, but I felt I was breaking her heart with every act of independence. We lived this struggle for pretty much the rest of her life, even as I grew up, went off to college, fell in love, lived on my own.
When I was in my early twenties, I remember helping her get something out of the hatchback of her Ford Escort. Thinking we were done, I began to bring the hatch down to close it. When I suddenly realized my mother was still leaning into the back and I released the hatch. She stood there clutching her head, though unhurt. The horror of what almost happened was far deeper than any horror I had experienced before or since on my own behalf. I've been nearly hit by cars and yet this is the moment I remember when I think about what it is like to stand in someone else's shoes. She was me and I was her and in that moment, the idea of her coming to harm was more painful to me than anything I can imagine. And still is.
She continues to teach me things, amazing things, about myself and about herself. Earlier this month I serendipitously came across a book. I had no real intention of reading it, but I saw it on the shelf at the library and I could not pass it by. Even once I brought it home, I expected to return it unread. But on my way to the laundromat one day it was the nearest book and the one I grabbed and once I started, I was unable to put it down. It was full of synchronicities for me. Stories of loved ones passing on, and of esoteric subjects I had never heard of which were later mentioned to me, at random, by people at work just a couple days later. Just an endless stream of coincidences as I read this book. And by reading this book I came to realize that I am intensely emotionally empathic.
So THIS is why I lose myself utterly and completely in romantic relationships. And THIS is why I need so much alone time. Why I hate crowds. Why loud noises alarm me. Why TOO MUCH of anything is like having the world screaming at me at high volume. Why I get drained so easily, why my entire being gets flooded with negativity around certain people.
I've entertained this idea before, but it was suddenly very real. Very literal, very in the moment. Very much the thing I needed to know. Aha! I've wanted to be a healer of sorts, something an empath naturally feels inclined to be. But the healer must heal themselves first. And I needed to learn how to protect my own energies so that I could give freely. I giggled at the thought that my mother was indeed a healer, since she was a nurse. And then a light went on.
My mother was an empath, too. It's so clear now, not just in the fact that we had such an intense relationship, neither of us knowing where one ended and the other began, but also in her emotional distance. My mother was capable of great open-heartedness, love and compassion.. especially for people outside her family. Her co-workers and friends were no real threat to her emotional well-being, so she let in their hurts and hopes and happiness. But for us, her children, it often seemed a brick wall was up. She'd turn on the television just as you were pouring your heart out. She'd look away. She was protecting herself, the only way she knew how, and I knew I sometimes did that with my sisters too, when I had hit my limit with them. Not knowing how to properly pull away, I'd get antsy and impatient and cruel, simply wanting to be left alone. This hurt them. I hope now I can learn to come from a place of honesty, where I can learn to keep my energy separate so that I can help, and to know when to be honest about why I am moving away or stepping out for air. I don't want to put up the same emotional walls my mother did.
See, she still teaches me. Her life, her example, her love, her strengths and her imperfections, are all in me, all part of me. Happy Birthday to my earthly mother, now in Heaven.
We struggled to differentiate from one another, but I was the baby of the family and the child she seemed least willing to let go. In my early teens I was hospitalized for "separation anxiety" and my therapists thought it was my mother I was too attached to. But when I finally started the very important process of individuation, I felt her pulling me under. Not because she didn't love me or didn't want me to have a healthy life, but I felt I was breaking her heart with every act of independence. We lived this struggle for pretty much the rest of her life, even as I grew up, went off to college, fell in love, lived on my own.
When I was in my early twenties, I remember helping her get something out of the hatchback of her Ford Escort. Thinking we were done, I began to bring the hatch down to close it. When I suddenly realized my mother was still leaning into the back and I released the hatch. She stood there clutching her head, though unhurt. The horror of what almost happened was far deeper than any horror I had experienced before or since on my own behalf. I've been nearly hit by cars and yet this is the moment I remember when I think about what it is like to stand in someone else's shoes. She was me and I was her and in that moment, the idea of her coming to harm was more painful to me than anything I can imagine. And still is.
She continues to teach me things, amazing things, about myself and about herself. Earlier this month I serendipitously came across a book. I had no real intention of reading it, but I saw it on the shelf at the library and I could not pass it by. Even once I brought it home, I expected to return it unread. But on my way to the laundromat one day it was the nearest book and the one I grabbed and once I started, I was unable to put it down. It was full of synchronicities for me. Stories of loved ones passing on, and of esoteric subjects I had never heard of which were later mentioned to me, at random, by people at work just a couple days later. Just an endless stream of coincidences as I read this book. And by reading this book I came to realize that I am intensely emotionally empathic.
So THIS is why I lose myself utterly and completely in romantic relationships. And THIS is why I need so much alone time. Why I hate crowds. Why loud noises alarm me. Why TOO MUCH of anything is like having the world screaming at me at high volume. Why I get drained so easily, why my entire being gets flooded with negativity around certain people.
I've entertained this idea before, but it was suddenly very real. Very literal, very in the moment. Very much the thing I needed to know. Aha! I've wanted to be a healer of sorts, something an empath naturally feels inclined to be. But the healer must heal themselves first. And I needed to learn how to protect my own energies so that I could give freely. I giggled at the thought that my mother was indeed a healer, since she was a nurse. And then a light went on.
My mother was an empath, too. It's so clear now, not just in the fact that we had such an intense relationship, neither of us knowing where one ended and the other began, but also in her emotional distance. My mother was capable of great open-heartedness, love and compassion.. especially for people outside her family. Her co-workers and friends were no real threat to her emotional well-being, so she let in their hurts and hopes and happiness. But for us, her children, it often seemed a brick wall was up. She'd turn on the television just as you were pouring your heart out. She'd look away. She was protecting herself, the only way she knew how, and I knew I sometimes did that with my sisters too, when I had hit my limit with them. Not knowing how to properly pull away, I'd get antsy and impatient and cruel, simply wanting to be left alone. This hurt them. I hope now I can learn to come from a place of honesty, where I can learn to keep my energy separate so that I can help, and to know when to be honest about why I am moving away or stepping out for air. I don't want to put up the same emotional walls my mother did.
See, she still teaches me. Her life, her example, her love, her strengths and her imperfections, are all in me, all part of me. Happy Birthday to my earthly mother, now in Heaven.
