Every September, I remember.
I clicked on the email.
The same two words were repeated in the body.
Photo byAdi ConstantinonUnsplash
It stung more than if there had been no email.
Its been six years since I spoke to my mama.
Every September, I remember.
I love my mama.
I truly hope she finds peace.
I also believe that she loves me and that she has always done her very best.
My mama has an undiagnosed and untreated range of mental illnesses.
Her actions are steeped in trauma and wounding.
And she has been unwilling to ask for or to receive help.
She was young, 21, when she had me.
Crazily in love with a short, cocky Italian fuckboy, she wanted to have his baby.
He told her so.
She did it anyway.
She laughed at me with sweetness and warmth and gave me more.
I must have been around 18 months.
My next earliest memory is in a small apartment in Salzburg, Austria, my birthplace.
I want my mama to play with my big, blue 80s-style rotary dial telephone with me.
She doesnt have time for me because shes too sad.
Looking back, I realize that she most likely had anxiety and depression for as long as I remember.
She was always stressed, anxious, worried, crying.
I imagine she didnt have enough support or help and she was scared.
When I was six, she married a man 25 years her senior.
I think she married him for safety and security.
He verbally and emotionally abused me for the entirety of their eight-year marriage.
She did nothing to stop it.
I did it to protect you!
Silence is compliance, I say.
She was doing the best she could.
Plus, shes my mama.
But then I recognized something else.
The abuse didnt stop.
It just changed hands.
There were erratic mood swings and strange, inconsistent behavior.
There were days where she was so loving and kind.
She really wanted to be a good mother.
There were days where hate and anger poured out of hershe would palpably vibrate with it.
It was like something evil possessed her.
When I was with her, my world was so confusing.
She didnt make any sense.
I never knew what mood I would find her in or how she would react to the simplest things.
Any question might set off a day of hostility or violent words for no clear reason.
I accepted it all.
It was all I knew.
I thought it was normal.
I stayed with friends and family often and then left home as soon as possible.
The first time I was 16.
But I kept coming back.
If I was better, things would be better.
Maybe we could have the kind of relationship I had always wanted.
Across the next 17 years, I came back and tried to heal our relationship many times.
The last time was 6 years ago.
I had grown so much, I thought.
We had a few ignorantly blissful days to begin with.
The magic three days, I called them.
It was always good for up to three days.
And then it was not.
I tried to stay open.
I wanted to be good.
I had forgiven her so many times already.
I just wanted to love her.
I stopped speaking openly.
I just became silent, as I always did.
It was not safe.
Silence is my sanctuary.
A long time ago, I learned a very effective coping mechanism: forgetfulness.
I cant remember everything that happened.
I wrote all the stories in my journal.
So I would remember.
But I burned that journal, as I always have with my others.
What I do remember are tiny snippets.
I remember standing in the kitchen, leaning on one leg with my left hand on my left hip.
She suddenly turned and screamed at me that my stance was an attack on her.
I remember being bewildered and sad and turning away.
I never spoke of her to my friends.
I was too embarrassed to tell them about her.
She must have misheard me.
I remember her neighbours looking at me with pity when they learned that I was her daughter.
I wondered what they said or knew about her.
And then one day, I gave up.
No matter what you say or do, I will always love you, I said.
But you cant treat me like this.
She muttered something violently with hostility on her face.
I turned, packed my bag, and left.
That was six years ago in September.
We havent spoken since.
I promised myself that that was the last time.
I couldnt keep repeating the pattern.
It was insanity to keep trying.
I had to stop.
I had to let go.
I had to learn how to reparent myself.
I had to learn how to have healthy boundaries.
I had to learn to feel safe.
I never forgot that statement.
Every year she sends me an email for my birthday.
Happy birthday, it reads.
