Last night, after my weekly happy hour with my usual buds at our usual place and time, The Writer came over for dinner and a sleep over. Upon his arrival, I made it clear that the usual beers had hit me exceptionally hard - I blame it on my new diet. When I get a bit tipsy I tend to talk. A lot. And I'm all over the place talking about completely random subjects. And many times, the conversation turns a little dark and I verbally vomit about my childhood. Which is precisely what subjected The Writer to while I burnt our dinner.
As I presume most people did, Sister and I had a difficult childhood to say the least. Our parents divorced when I was 4 and she was less than a year old. We went back and forth, living between our mom's and dad's houses. Eventually, we settled in at Dad's and came to call that "home". We are to this day very much Daddy's Girls. I love our mom and we have a unique, albeit complicated relationship. But that relationship is without a doubt the root of many of the issues that usually lie dormant in my brain.
I'd say it started sometime in high school. Sister and I were pretty much settled at Dad's. Mom lived on the other side of the city. Once I got my own car, I would visit her about once a month. Our youngest sibling (our half brother) would have been about 5, a young and demanding age. Slowly, Mom's attention drifted away from Sister and I as she understandably had to make the little one her priority. Yet it still seemed that Mom only did the bare minimum when it came to being a mom. At one point, Sister went to boarding school in another state. Even with his busy schedule of work travel, Dad made it a point to be highly involved in her school and visited her at every opportunity. While still making sure I had plenty of time with him as well. Mom visited Sister once and I'm not sure she ever made the 20 mile drive to hang out with me.
At my high school, we had the traditional "walk with your class" graduation ceremony. But there was another, more important and more special ceremony. It was a private meeting with my adviser, my closest friends and my family. It was at this meeting, that I was actually presented with my diploma. Screw the "graduation"; this little meeting was the big deal. The morning of, Mom called to tell me she had a doctor's appointment and would be unable to attend. (After-hours at 5pm?) When I cried and begged her reschedule, she said the only other day the Dr. had available would conflict with my little brother's school recital. She threw in the little-brother-guilt-trump card. Still, who chooses a kindergarten recital over their firstborn's high school fucking graduation? I cried and cried and cried some more. She finally gave me an ultimatum and said "Okay, I will go to this but if I do, I will just call your grandparents and the rest of my side of the family and tell them to not bother with the big graduation on Saturday." That stuck with me forever. I will never forget the cruelty of her voice on the other end of the phone. I gave up and dropped it. The mood during that meeting was somber. And everyone in the room could see the sadness and feeling of abandonment in my face. She came to the big school-wide graduation ceremony. She did the bare minimum.
In the last decade, Mom has moved out of town to a little farm community a few hours away. I rarely go to visit, but why would I? She maybe comes to visit Sister and I once a year. The rest of the year is filled with empty hopes when she says she "might come down this weekend." She rarely calls and when she does, it is conveniently during my work hours or Sister's school hours. The next week is spent trying in vain to return her call. These phone calls are the bare minimum.
She is coming to visit today. She called me two days ago to say she "might come down this weekend." As even grown children do, Sister and I have been hoping and getting excited for her visit. Mom called Sister four hours ago to say she is definitely coming to town today. She wants to do a lunch with us but it has to be in the heart of the city as she doesn't want to go out of her way. Her and our brother are getting a hotel 40 minutes from where Sister and I live. Screeching brakes. So Mom is coming, but it must not be to see us. A quick lunch is the bare minimum.
It is times like this I am ever thankful that I have met The Writer. He luckily, doesn't think I'm completely bat-shit crazy. Yet. And later tonight, I can run my abandoned self into his big arms. And forget about this shit until a year from now when Mom comes to visit again.
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