In my previous post I wrote:
My mom can’t see me, really. I think I came to accept this back in my early teens. Maybe age 12? I think that’s when I stopped trying. This was upsetting to her, and we lost most of my teen years to power-struggles. My apathetic rebellion clashed against her controlling demands of obedience. Having an unmanageable daughter isn’t good for image, you know. There were times, however, when I’d discover my mother’s love in hindsight.
I proceeded to describe the move in 5th grade…
I recently thought of another example of discovering my mother’s love-disguised-as-negligence. Many times, as a sixteen year old, I’d stay out past curfew. We didn’t have cell-phones then, so I’d call from a pay phone and say I was somewhere I wasn’t. I also knew my mom did her research...she was quite obsessed with catching me in lies; it was one of her secret pleasures. I’m not even kidding, by the way. On a walk last Christmas, she told me, “It’s not good for kids to get away with things. When you were kids, I used to pray [pray!] that you’d get in trouble if you were misbehaving...otherwise you wouldn’t learn your lessons.” She used to smell my clothes for cigarettes even though I never smoked and check my room for condoms even though I never had sex. But I can see why; I lied a lot. I lied about who I was with, and where I was located, and whether I was passing or failing my classes. I hated myself, and hated myself for being such a lying schmuck. But postponing punishment - as opposed to staying home, that is - was the only reprieve I had from their hyper-critical management, their exceedingly-high standards, and chronically feeling like a failure of a human being.
Well, there was a time when I spend the night at a guy friend’s house. Not a boyfriend’s house, a friend-who-happens-to-be-a-boy’s house. But I knew my parents would never trust the idea of a teenage boy not having predatory sex with their virginal evangelical daughter. So naturally, I lied about it. And they found out. And I was grounded for a few months. Until a few years ago, I assumed my mom delighted in finding something to “get me” for. But (in my adulthood) I ran into a friend’s mother who said she remembered a phone call from my mom back then. “Yes, both our kids were teenagers...you guys were in high school. She was scared, very scared. And we prayed together on the phone because she worried about you. She felt hopeless and didn’t know what to do.”
This shot through my gut like a bladed spear. Whoa, I thought, my mom never showed me her fear or her sadness. All I ever saw was anger. Competitive anger. But she was scared? Concerned? Wow, I’ve never seen her cry before. Maybe she really wanted me. Yes, she must’ve really wanted me, I concluded, even though she’d never let herself say it.
These “figuring out you mom actually likes you” moments are number enough that I...think...I’ve...actually...listed them all. Yup, two. The move, and the case of the missing daughter