Letter to mother

Dear mother,
So, you went through my stuff and found my birth control. I almost want to congratulate you, since this is the most you've found out about me since I was seven. Which, judging by your reaction, is about your age.

I'm not really angry. I'm too lazy to be angry. I expected you to break your promise sooner or later, because you've broken similar promises in the past. I had hoped that you wouldn't, but like Dr. Phil says, the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior.

I guess I'm sad. I had hoped that you would actually talk to me. No, listen to me. I've done a lot of listening for you. It feels as though I've been your emotional garbage can, that you talk to me in order to get it off of you, rather than dealing with it. What's more, I want you to care about what I think and how I feel, since I've come to the conclusion that caring about thoughts and feelings is the hallmark of real love. I know you won't find that in your bible, so perhaps that doesn't mean anything to you.

I can remember times that you've shrieked at me to "grow up." Now that I am an adult, I find a sort of irony in it. I mean, you're throwing a fit because I'm not behaving like you think I should behave. I wonder what Grandma would think if she saw you like that. I think that you got to point in life where you decided that you didn't need to grow anymore, so you just stopped. Oh, certainly you have grown older, but you have consistently chosen not to learn from what happens.

I know, I know, you've been hurt. I have heard you tell the tale many times, relishing the hurt, the details, the pain. Mother, your pain does not make you special. Pain happens to everyone, and I could point out numerous examples of people who have been through the same traumas that you have, some even worse, and have come out of it to live successful lives, with a better sense of perspective. I imagine many more have taken your route, to blame the world, everyone around them, shove off the responsibility of growth on other people. It is the easy way. The coward's way.

Yes, I think you are an emotional coward. Accepting the past, then letting it go was the hardest thing I've done. But, it's given me an incredible freedom... a detachment from my pain. I can look at what has happened, and see oh, perhaps that's why it happened, and gain understanding. Yes someone did a horrible thing to you. Someone did a horrible thing to you 45 years ago. It's as though you are stuck at that age. Maybe you are, emotionally.

Then, you had kids. You had a responsibility to be supportive and caring and nurturing. But, you weren't; you aren't, just listen to yourself and the disparaging way you talk about most subjects that my siblings and I bring up. Anything uncomfortable gets a one-sentence treatment. The talk about sex went: "Sex is for marriage." The talk about birth control: "Some women just can't say no." There's no information in those statements, no caring, no love.

So, you've found my birth control. Rather than behaving like you care about me, you try to rip me to pieces. I can't tell you how sad it makes me feel when you behave like this. I wish you had some self-awareness, to listen to what you're saying and imagine how you'd feel if you were called a whore by your mother. I will obey you and your rules, in letter if not in spirit.

I think I've cried enough tears over this.

your daughter,
Tactical Grace

Screwed up people tend to be screwed up.

Well, at least people who wallow in it.

My mother, who I generally don't get along with, was molested when she was 13-14. She has control issues, probably because of that. If it is because of that, then that's her problem.

I know, sounds cold. But when you get past a certain age, the crap that happened in your childhood starts to be under your control. That is, you can let it control you, or you can accept it for what it was, how it changed you, and you know, move on. If you're going to be all, mommy didn't care, daddy didn't love me, blah blah blah, thirty years after the fact, then you haven't moved on. You're still stuck there.

I have some crap. Occasionally, it sneaks up on me and then practically hits me on the head with a frying pan. It can be annoying. Usually, I see it, and it's like, oh, that's what that was... and I move on. I don't think mom does that.

I could list the things mother does that leads me to that conclusion, but it's more than sufficient to say that they're controlling and manipulative behaviors. And whenever I say something to that point, she gets angry. Without fail. It's frustrating from my point of view, because she's so stuck in this past drama that she can't -- maybe won't -- grow.

I'm certainly not perfect, but I do think my point of view is relevant.

Why I knit

I knit. I admit it. And I enjoy doing it. Terrible, really.

I started knitting after mother called me lazy. Just to be perverse. Because it's hard to call someone lazy when they have knitting on their lap.

I made some potholders, then I decided to stop dicking around and get to it. My first real project was an entrelac shawl made with noro silk garden. (entrelac is a method of knitting that makes the fabric look like woven strips; noro silk garden cost me $85) Not the lady Eleanor shawl, but close to it; it's called "kaleidoscope" and it's from Donna Kooler's Encyclopedia of Knitting, my first knitting book. I taught myself how to knit backwards working on it.

It wasn't hard, per se, just difficult. I had to constantly remind myself of basic stuff, like how to purl. I survived it, and it's still survived. I gave it to my sister, and it looks a lot better on her than me. I've done cables, socks, intarsia, and my personal favorite, cabled intarsia in the round. What was I thinking? That project is now sitting on my lap, waiting to be finished up and then sent off to its recipient. Nothing's been as difficult as teaching myself Trig. And damnit, if I can teach myself trig, I can so do anything.

Regardless of what mother says.