Knowing The Real Me

I have a lot to say. For those of you who are afraid by long blogs, beware…
I live in a state I have called my home for nine years now. There is no one in my family nearby, and I have thus far forged my path here alone. But sometimes I picture what it would be like to return home. Somehow, I always imagined the perfect life during the holidays … Of course I'd drive home, from whatever adventure I had just completed. I'd make it home first.
Dad would, of course, be out running errands-getting firewood for the stove or salt for the sidewalk. Mom would be waiting, the soft sounds of Frank Sinatra's Christmas playing in the living room. The kitchen, as always, is a mess. The counter-tops are covered with every type of baking material possible. Her hair's disheveled, her clothes don't match, and she has no makeup on. But her smile that lights up her face when I arrive at the door, makes her beautiful.
It smells like cinnamon and bread and the house is warm and cozy. It has not yet begun to snow, but the air is thick and the ominous clouds foretell a white blanket will soon cover the ground. I stamp my feet to remove the dirt, and Mom ushers me inside.
Pretty soon, Shauna will show up. She'll probably bring her boyfriend with her-a guy I have yet to meet. She met him somewhere in Europe, I think, when she was on the "vacation of a lifetime" as she called it. He's got an accent I hear and has a sort of old-fashioned charm with modern style. I can't wait to meet him, and see if he's good enough for my little sister.
I'm still single, but that's okay. My search has yet to result in any tangible proof that God is working on someone great for me. Of course Mom asks about it again, but dismisses it when she sees that talking about it bothers me. "Don't worry, you'll find him. I'm sure of it." She assures me. Then she asks about my job and I launch into the latest boring dissertation of the latest in law enforcement.
About this time, there's movement at the door. I hear the door close quickly and the unmistakeable sound of cursing. "Someone's damn car is parked the front of our house again." He says annoyed. But then he sees me and realizes that it's mine. He scoops me up in a rough but warm hug, practically lifting me off the ground. Then he sets me down again and says, "Hey Angel. I didn't realize you'd be here so soon." "I couldn't wait to get here." I reply. Pretty soon, Mom and Dad are bickering over something small, but then laugh about it when I give them a strange look that betrays my thoughts that they are a lovely couple despite their shortcomings and petty arguments. Because underneath it all, they are fighting because they care about making everything "just so" for when Shauna and I come every year. Underneath it all, is their love for us.
Not much time passes by before Dad inquires about my financial status and how well I'm doing. I confess that buying presents has left me more worse for wear than I had intended. Dad promises to help me pay for my car insurance at the beginning of the year. "You can't let that lapse, you know honey. It's important." He shakes his newspaper, straightening it, and then launches into his latest stand on recent politics and the state of the economy.
Unfortunately, my real family is nothing like the one I so often picture. A long time ago, I made decisions that were supposed to help my situation, not make it worse. It has taken me years to realize what it is I am doing here in California and why I chose so long ago to run away. When I chose to leave my home at sixteen, I hoped that I would leave behind my old life and everything that came with it. I wanted to abandon my real family and with it, all hopes that the "semi-perfect" family I'd envisioned would one day because at least a small possibility.
But, years later, I continue to struggle with many of the things I purposely left behind. I struggle with decisions I am not sure I am strong enough to make and thoughts in my head that seem to have no escape.
Mom continues to drink, even after all these years-even after the cancer, even after it has driven away countless people from her life. She doesn't think she has a problem. Perhaps she has convinced herself thoroughly, or perhaps her drinking problem is my imagination.
Whatever the case, I will never forget her trips to the bar when I was younger, her "overnights" to whatever boyfriend she chose that month, and her constant torture of me and my sister. She continues to be in my life to this day. We had thus far, established the sort of relationship with clear boundaries. We must set boundaries to avoid the subjects that are like open wounds that may never close. We must have boundaries so that, on some level, I can have the mom I've always wanted.
The only problem with that is, I am me. I am person that Mom doesn't know. She only knows the scared, frightened girl I used to be-the one who always pretended to be what she wanted me to be so she wouldn't hit me. I pretended to agree with her most of the time, I pretended to agree with her when she told me what an awful person I was, and along the way, traded a piece of my soul for a few moments of grace and peace. Because, as long as I pretended, she could never touch me. She could never reach my soul or my heart. She could never touch my optimism, my generosity, or my faith that one day, things would be better.
Today, I think she is still caught between the person I am and the person I pretended to be then. The person I am today does not agree with her lifestyle or the way she chooses to live. If it were anyone else, I would merely stop spending time with her because I know that spending time with people who are a negative influence on you bring you down. The real me wants to do what I always do: fix things, make things better. My natural ability to sense what's wrong and try to make it right has no place in our mother-daughter relationship. She is the person who drowns her sorrow in alcohol, and I'm the girl she doesn't understand.
To her, I am supposed to be supportive. I am supposed to listen to her go on and on about her failed relationships, her bad decisions, and her desperate implorations for money. All the while, I can hear the sound of ice cubes hitting the edge of the glass. I don't have to ask what she's drinking; I already know. Most of the time when we speak, I try my best to keep our conversations superficial. Talk about the weather and my job and how it's always the same: busy. I don't dare talk about the person I really am because the moment I do, it becomes a war zone.
Whenever I try to be myself, and talk about the things that are important to me, she will always steer the conversation back to herself. "It's just like me and …" blah blah blah. Only, it's nothing like what she's going through. Half the time, I get the feeling she just wants to bring the conversation back to her again. Most of the time, I don't fight it. I just let it go wherever she wants to take it. I can't be the daughter I'd like to be because it's unhealthy for me. I can't call her every week or discuss real life issues or even spend large amounts of time with her. Because I feel like an alien in my own family.
The longer I hear about what she does, the more it upsets and frustrates me, the more I want to try and fix things. Sometimes, the real me breaks out and offers suggestions to make things easier. "Get some hobbies." I suggest. "Find some people your age to hang out with." But the moment my real self emerges, it becomes apparent why we are able to spend so little time together. She immediately gets defensive, as if, as her daughter, I have no right to tell her what to do with her life. All this from the parent who begs me for money or asks me what to do when things go wrong.
She seems to have little thought about how I am doing financially. I have never, in all the time I have been on my own, gotten a penny from her. All the times that I couldn't make rent or I didn't have enough money to pay for things, I struggled on my own. And when she told me she couldn't pay her bills, I tried to help her. Because that's what daughters do; that's what family does-they band together and help one another out. But at some point, something's got to give. This unhealthy relationship has got to change. I have recently realized that I have little more to give other than myself, my true self.
The truth of it all is, I should be enough. But if she were to know the real me... she would understand that I continue to struggle here in California. I continue to struggle with things that she will never understand. I continue to struggle every day with the things she didn't teach me, the choices I've had to make as a result of her failures, and a part of my soul died the day I realized she had no idea who I really was. But she will never know those things. She feels it is mine (and now Shauna's) obligation to care for her. But where was she all those years when we needed caring for? How can you care for someone else when you yourself are still picking up the pieces?
Ultimately, I had to choose. I had to choose my health and well being over her. I had to choose to keep myself safe and mentally (and it turns out physically) distance myself from her. I love her because she is my mother, but that doesn't mean that I have to like her lifestyle or support it.
She has chosen to live her life the way she has. If our roles were reversed, she would not –could not—come to my aid to help me. She would be the first to run away at a hint of trouble. And although I would like to be better than that, I've realized that you cannot begin to help another person before you've first helped yourself. It's not about being selfish, but about taking care of yourself. All those years that she never took care of me—never cared enough about who I really was-or perhaps never bothered to find out. And here I am. Because of, or perhaps in spite of her, I am me. I am here in California and I am making it all on my own. I have a great career, a great family (my friends of course), and feel great most of the time. That is something that I am very proud of. And I can't, for even a moment, imagine letting her take that all away from me again.
That's the thing about an addict. They will drag you down with them if you let them. They will take even those with the best intentions and force them to their ruin as long as it results in them getting what they want. Unfortunately, until she realizes this or changes her lifestyle, we will never be friends and we will never have the relationship I've always dreamed about.
How ironic that I should value family so much and yet have to learn to listen to the voice inside me telling me it's okay to walk away when my heart would have me do otherwise. I continue to have faith that one day, she'll find out who I really am and try to get to know that person. I believe that the best gift I can give my mother at this point, is my true self. I can also show my mother how much I love her, by being a better mother to my children than she was to me. But being a better mother, a better sister, a better friend, I will show her that it is possible to love and be loved without wanting or expecting something in return.
If my true self does not always agree with her lifestyle or her mean, hurtful comments, I must remain ever vigilant and continue to be true to myself. I just sometimes wish that the path wasn't so difficult, so long, or so lonely. When sadness tries to tear me down, I push it aside and know that I am happy with who I've become and strive, every day, to be the person that would make my mom—the one who has the potential to see the real me--truly proud.