Maybe That's Why

She was a good grandmother to my brothers and I; she was. Every birthday party, every holiday, every elementary school grandparent day she has been there and we loved having her. My mother on the other hand cannot say the same. My grandmother is manipulating, she pins people against each other, and although a sweet old woman to any observer, she’s batshit crazy.

I can usually handle the need for attention, the constant questions aimed purposefully to get a reaction, and the grasp for sympathy at every corner portrayed by my grandmother. I may even find humor in a story or two later down the road simply because of the outrageousness of these actions. Not humor like ha-ha, humor as in how could someone possible think to behave this way. My mother’s mother is the reason the little bit of sanity in that household left a long time ago. Referred to as “the crazy” in my family of five, we love her, we do, but she’s 89 years old and although you may think these things come with age, I am slowly learning that she has always been this way and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.

Even still, I can usually deal with “the crazy” no problem. I’ll get her ice until her imaginary headache goes away, I’ll help her walk upstairs despite the fact I just saw her run down them, and I will even keep my mouth shut although dieing to say something to catch her in a lie.

This however is not the cause of my turmoil. I have realized now that she can’t be helped; she is a lost cause. The problem I have is when I find myself hating the so-called crazy in my own mom.

This bitterness comes from watching my mother worry and stress time and time again over things she shouldn’t have to. Sometimes she paces the kitchen questioning her actions. She’ll ask herself how many days has it been since I’ve called or has anything slipped out that wasn’t suppose to?

Other times, she’s annoyed at my grandmother’s unreasonable actions and pretends not to care. Still, she knows they won’t talk unless she calls first, and there is never telling what will upset her.

I watch my mother worry, and I watch our own relationship suffer because I feel insignificant or judge, simply because my mother must have felt this way too.

Although I know my mother has plenty examples of “the crazy” of her own, I am beginning to see the signs for myself.

In our fairly new house in Texas, my grandmother will come visit from time to time. She can’t handle the six-hour drive from south Louisiana often, so when she comes, it is for a week or two. In these more infrequent visits, I began to realize why my mother is the way she is.

One afternoon a few days before Christmas, my grandmother walked into my room from her guest room across the hall.

Rummaging through my closet, I look up and say, “Hey!”

I always try to be positive when I can as to not provoke any unneeded drama. As she sits on my bed, she pulls out a pair of socks. She knows I like silly socks with colors or characters and will usually bring me a pack from the dollar store that she thinks is cute. This pair however is different. She lifts up a pair of yellow, slick-free hospitals socks. I look at her questioningly thinking she just wants to know if I want them right? No. She then begins to explain how my dead grandfather of about a year and a half at this point wanted me to have them. She continued talking through tears but all I heard was that my happy, go-lucky grandpa wanted his granddaughter to have a pair of unopened hideous, bright-yellow hospital socks that mean absolutely nothing to anyone. As I awkwardly took the socks and threw them in my closet unsure of what to do, I learned about mind games. Maybe that’s why my mother feels the need to question everything.

Within the same week, I sat on the couch in our living room. My dad came home and said we were going for a bite to eat, he pleaded with me until I gave in and walked upstairs to tell “the crazy.” She was in bed with a cold towel on her head, too sick to go. Whether one of us upset her earlier in the day or not is unknown, all we know now is that she is not coming. When my mother arrived from work, we again began the debate.

“Can we leave her?” my brother asked.

I watched as my mother’s face turned sad and frustrated, questioning why my grandmother was upset with her and knowing full well she could not leave the house. Maybe that’s why my mother struggles with her own guilt in daily decisions.

These encounters although sparse in drama compared to some I’ve heard, have made me see my grandmother in a new light. Some stories are even hard to believe, then again I believe them, like the time my mother came home excited about an invite to a school dance only to be questioned by my grandmother as to why the boy would ask her or like how on the morning of my parents wedding she laid in bed sick, howling loud enough for dogs to bark back because the jeweler’s son across town would have been a better fit for the family or more like her pocket book. These examples are just a few off of the top of my head as to why I can’t blame my mother for having her own insecurities. Maybe that’s why my mother sometimes thinks things are never good enough.

I honestly don’t know how my mother made it out the strong, confident, heartfelt woman she is today. She always tries her best to communicate when she believes her actions are a little on the crazy side. She doesn’t always see it though.

Whether I’m generally mad or hurt at what she said to judge my choices, it never comes from that big of a deal. I then feel guilty. I feel guilty for judging my mother for mirroring some of the behavior she so desperately tries to repress. I know it’s not her fault; she has been dealing with this woman’s shenanigans for 55 years, but I can’t help it.

Does she embarrass me with coupons at the checkout counter like my grandma does? Yes. Does she feel the need to question what I wear, how much weight I lost or gained, or even boys I chose to show interest in? Yes. Does she know she does these things? Yes.

Does she also put pressure on me to be better than the best because the fact that she never could be was drilled into her brain throughout her entire childhood? Yeah, but she doesn’t know that.

And then again, I feel even guiltier for not telling her because I know she would do whatever possible to not make me feel bad about myself in the slightest.

I remain frustrated that my mother sometimes slightly resembles my grandmother, but I am learning. I am learning to not be so judgmental so quickly. I’m gaining communication skills and realizing with age that no one really knows why a person is the way they are or what they have been through. I am only beginning to hear of all the things my own mother endured throughout her childhood, and I am thankful for the loving one I got to experience.