I was speaking with a colleague the other day about how scandalous the press is concerning most celebrities; specifically Whitney Houston. They roast these celebrities in public but the minute they die, the “drug addicted” celeb is all of a sudden akin to mother Theresa. I snickered and said, “yeah been there done that!” She asked me what I meant, she thought I was some long-lost long forgotten somebody’s daughter. I assured her that was not the case. My Dad is eternally humble and expected us to be as well. She asked, “What do you mean?”
Sitting at my mothers funeral March 2010, I experienced the phenomena where people only remember the good, as they should but what’s funny is the person they talked about was NOT MY mother, not the woman who was given credit for raising us; not the woman who was neglectful and self-absorbed and essentially allowed us four kids to raise ourselves. They spoke of her reading books on tape to my younger cousins, they spoke of her Mayonnaise cake and baked Alaska. They spoke of her crocheting and sewing and teaching others to tat. They spoke of her talent as a painter and artist in general. How she was “there” for anybody at any time, willing drop the latest hobby du jour and come to their aid! This was NOT MY mother. . .
When I finally figured out, around age 4 that I would have to join her “world” to get any attention, she was too busy or I was too young or too “slow.” (She had me tested because she was convinced I was mentally retarded. The IQ came back well above the typical range at which time the psychologist who tested me told her, and I remember this rather vividly, “You should spend more time with your daughter! She’s delightfully bright!”) If I needed help reading my home work and I asked if she could read to me, her everlasting response was “Not right now, I’m recording books on tape for Brian, Dena and Eddie.. . . You need to leave, I don’t want any background noise.” I gave up getting positive attention at that point. I acted out and was put in my room; no big deal that’s where my toys and books and real friends, my hamsters, were. When I was allowed to go outside, no mention of when to be back of ‘where are you going’ ever made so I learned to ride for miles and miles on my bike, or walk my Springer Spaniel for hours, telling myself stories and planning what I wanted to do when I was old enough to get out of the house and much to my shame, then, I would hope Daddy would divorce her or she would die and let my dad move on with his life. In retrospect I realized this was a child’s way of dealing with a no win situation. I realize her death would have been his death; he would not have moved on much as he is not moving on now. It is inconceivable to me how he could not but I leave the subject be, allow him to mourn in his way and try to stay happy around him. Her death was the letting go all four of us waited for and needed, well I needed it. Her death meant i could move past my childhood or so I thought. She died spiritually when she was diagnosed with MS. She gave up . . . . essentially she died in 1971 but her body lived until 2010.
Dark Head-Space 