thisisalisa

[thisisalisa]

my mother’s legacy

today, i read a post on Instagram that read: “doing healing work means... exploring your past conditioning and beliefs about yourself, relationships and the world around you... recognising that sometimes forgiveness really means accepting that you can’t change the past... being true to yourself even if it means a relationship has to end.”

***

rejection

i heard someone say once, “those who have been rejected, reject others.” 

they say my mother had a difficult childhood. drunk father. abusive mother.

like her, i was abused. emotionally, mentally. i can say this now, but in truth, it still feels foreign on my tongue.

i remember going down on my knees on many an occasion, begging my mother for her forgiveness. if i didn’t do this, i wouldn’t be spoken to for weeks on end.

abandonment. something i felt acutely growing up.

rejection was something i worked on religiously with my counsellors. in my adulthood, i realised i reacted disproportionately when faced with rejection. but who knew that that was just the tip of the iceberg?

***

guilt

my mother is a staunch christian. 

when we fight, when her anger takes over, when her words fall like knives, in the next breath, she sings christian songs, and condemns me.

my father is a peacemaker. 

i was expected to be the same. so i did. after every fight, i had to be the first to apologise. sometimes, on my knees, as i mentioned.

even speeding down the highway at 140km/hr, in fear of my life, i apologised for being rude to her.

i grew up feeling extreme guilt if i didn’t ask for forgiveness, because the bible tells you, “honour your mother and father”. a verse i know by heart, because it’s been shouted, exclaimed, whispered to me over and over, like a law to live life by.

today, i ask myself: is your mother someone who gave birth to you? or someone who acts like a mother; a woman of god?

and what is honour? is it being will to subject yourself to the same kind of abuse, over and over again? 

***

self-flagellation 

i can recite all my flaws backwards.

i know every single one of them. the big, the small, the ones invisible to most people. 

i know them because i have had to examine my every action after each fight, and confess my mistakes, like those boxes you check off your grocery shopping list.

as a child, i prayed for forgiveness incessantly. today, it is the first thing that escapes my lips when i speak to god.

my father tells me yesterday, “you’re good at starting things, but you don’t finish,” as if i don’t already know this about myself.

i am my harshest critic. and i do not forgive myself easily.

***

anger

when i am angry, my words are a sight to behold.

they cut. they attack. they reject. 

my words are my only weapon against the person who i have just been hurt by, no matter how much i love them.

i wish i could seal my words in my throat sometimes. they should never be allowed to see the light of day.

***

this is the legacy my mother leaves behind.

unless, i can overcome.

***

i know overcoming means i must accept the past. heal, and let go.

after all, all seasons must come to an end. even the harshest winter blossoms into spring.

i made the decision to end my relationship with her a few months ago. “honour your mother and father,” her sisters said to me. “you don’t have to be best friends, but be cordial,” they added. my father said, “blessed are the peacemakers.” 

so I tried.

but they don’t understand is that every relationship withers at her proximity, even if it is at arm’s length. and so too, does the person on the other end.

i am withering away. 

when will the guilt stop; when will spring come?

[thisisalisa]

I have never ever

I have never ever had one of those mothers I read about in fairy tales.

*** I remember smelling that single packet of delicious fried noodles she had bought from the hawker centre and wanting to taste a forkful. Boy, did I want to be able to taste the deliciousness I smelled. She simply said she had bought it for herself, and continued eating, as my father and I ate the food our helper cooked that evening.

I remember slipping my homework into one of my teacher’s cubbyholes at the back of the staff room. I was crying uncontrollably. I believed my parents were filing for divorce. I was eight.

I remember hiding in the toilet. I was crying. And crying. She was screaming and banging hard on the locked door. She finally managed to knock out a panel in that wooden door. My father came home that evening. I remember him asking, “Why do you both give me so much trouble?”

I remember being in her toilet. So much happens in the toilets in our house. We were in the shower area. The door was closed. She had a cane in her hand. She brought the cane down on my thigh, until she drew blood. It was high up on my thigh, so no one could see when I wore pants.

I remember watching my mother pack a suitcase for the umpteenth time. She was leaving us again. As I stood there crying, she said viciously, “Never trust a man, Alisa. Never, ever, trust a man. Stand on your own two feet, so you can leave.” She left, without looking back at me.

I remember sleeping. I was safe, because I knew my dad was studying at the desk in my room. He was taking a course after work and he would often study late into the night in my room, with a desk lamp. The door flies open and bangs against the wall. “I’m leaving,” she exclaims. She has a suitcase in hand again. She leaves the door open, as she turns her back on me, and my father. I hear the gate open and the car start. She’s gone again.

I remember a car ride. She was going at 140km/hr on the highway. I was terrified. She was shouting at me. I cannot recall what she was saying. But I do remember that she didn’t care if she killed us both.

I remember a family holiday. Her two sisters, and their families, were with us, staying in different chalets. My parents had a big fight. In the middle of the night, my mother got into the car we drove there, and attempted to drive off the cliff. Her younger sister, and my father, threw themselves on the hood of the car to stop her. After, I was told to collect all the sharp objects in the chalet, so she wouldn’t attempt to kill herself again on that holiday.

I remember Paris. She was on a business trip, and I was there as a tagalong. I was distraught after a fight with her. That evening, I threatened to jump out the hotel window. As I sat on the windowsill, she took a step back and snapped a picture with her smartphone. In my despair, I asked her what she was doing. “I am taking a photo to prove to the police that I did not push you,” was the reply.

I remember Ai Jin. I visited her for years to seek help for the damage I didn’t know how to put right. She was my only outlet. The only person who could tell me how to fix the pain. One day she says, “I should tell you that your mother came to me. She has started counselling sessions too.” 

There are no end to the memories.

*** I am thirty-four years old this year.

My parents never divorced. I did, though, five years ago. So much time has passed, but mother never morphed into one of those mothers I longed for.

Yesterday, in a fight, as I cleaned up the wine glass she had broken by accident, she said to me, “When you were married to G, and living away, things were much better in this house. Your father and I had a better relationship.”

Like I said, there are no end to the memories.

*** I write because it is all I can do now.

I must learn to deal with my trauma.

After all, I have a happy life. I have a kind father. I have a partner I love, and who loves me. I have the kind of friends people can only dream of. I have a job I am proud of and can contribute to.

And yet, there is a void that I cannot figure out how to fill. It is mother-shaped void. You know, the kind from fairy tales.