Why I'm not Inviting My Mother To Read My Blog
Yes, this is really a picture of my parents. I'm willing to steal most of my blog pics from the internet, but I'm not willing to steal other people's parents. Although they look rather generic, don't they?
I'm honest to you people. I'm open and descriptive about my thoughts and feelings and worries and failures... and yes, my every once in a while success. I have a like it or lump it attitude, but see, I can do that with you. Most of you are strangers, who gives a damn what you think about me. The ones who actually know me apart from this blog, you may or may not know, I hand picked you for loving me for who I am and not judging me for it. Feel good about your damn selves? Good, now back to my mother.
I think my mom hates me. I know my mom loves me, but love isn't really the opposite of hate. I don't think you can truly hate someone unless you love them.
I just don't think that she's ever forgiven me for my teenagehood (or early 20s) and I don't really blame her. I don't really forgive me.
So how do I react? I try to be as outwardly perfect as I can be. Lame? Yes. Mentally unhealthy? Probably. Normal reaction? I really don't know. I might be totally off my rocker, no one tells me these things.
My mom has a hard time letting things go. I think one day she just decided it was too hard to be so emotionally invested in me, and just quit. And now that I've come back to the fold, did the whole prodigal daughter deal, who can blame the woman for being skeptical?
So, because I bare my worries and inadequecies here... my difficulty quitting smoking, (she thought I quit 3 years ago,) my like for the relaxation a glass of wine does for me (a sin) My questions and musings of wether I'm raising these kids right or not. I cannot let my mother in on this part of my life.
And it hurts me. Really it does. I talk a big game. I've been known to say, "I'd rather be hated for who I am, than loved for who I am not." And it rings true on every aspect of my life, except for this one.
You know, up until 4 months ago, I lived 30 miles away from the house I grew up in, the house my parents still live in. Now I live less than a mile away. My mom has been to my apartment a handful of times, mostly to pick me up for church, and has been inside twice. If you look on her Facebook (no, I'm not giving you my mom's Facebook) there are dozens and dozens of pictures of her holding my nieces, my niece's birthday cake, vacations taken with my brother and his wife. She babysits for them, has toys at her house that are already the girls' favorites, and applauds all the nifty, crafty things my sister-in-law is up to. (Which we all do, the girl is amazing, and her kids are awesome little pixies) But there are 3 pictures from when my daughter was born 18 months ago.... and thats it.
So, I put on a perfect front, hoping to win her over. Who can blame me? Maybe it's not normal or healthy, and I'm not very good at it. I can't exactly hide the fact I'm on welfare and don't have a car and live in subsidized housing... there's always that. I keep thinking, if I get my drivers license, and do this college thing, or start making good money, or stop asking her for rides or a can of tuna for dinner... she'll like me again. But, I don't know. All I know is she can't know about my smoking, or my glass of merlot, or the 5 hours of TV my kids watch a day. Then she'd know for sure how fucked up I am.
So, she can't read this blog. I wish she could, and not judge me for it. She always says I'm so smart, even if she says it in that tone that really says I've wasted my life. I think it would be something she'd be proud of me for.
Well, Mom, you'll never read this, but maybe I can send this vibe your way. I love you, I wish you loved me like that. Not just despite who I am, but because of it. I wish I was perfect like you are, but I'm not. I'm damaged and worldly and have a shitty sense of humor and get tired of my kids sometimes and just can't seem to get a grip on this smoking thing... but I try my best, just like you always told me to. Maybe someday we'll read this together, and you'll say, "Oh, Breann." like you always do, and things will be just fine between us.
But until then, this blog is like my room when I was 16, and you're just not allowed in.