Remembering to Forget

"Ouch!" I whispered as a tiny drop of blood fell and bloomed on my sash. I jerked my head up, afraid the rest of my Brownie troupe would realize that I had no idea how to sew.

I scanned the room. Pairs of mothers and daughters dotted the landscape, heads bent, intent on stitching.

As usual, there was only one man to be seen.

My father.

You might think I was embarrassed. Being the only Brownie with her father in attendance raised some eyebrows. However, by that time, I was already accustomed to not having a mother.

Growing up, I didn’t question the why of her absence. When we were young, she worked nights. She was not a morning person.

Pop rose early on the weekends. He’d bundle us into the old red Jeep and we’d head to the YMCA for an hour or so followed by errands.

I clearly remember feeling anxious on these mornings. Even as a child, my psyche tried to compensate for the pain of feeling like I was the only little girl who didn’t have a mom.

When we encountered female shop clerks, my questions would begin.

“Pop, what do you think Mom will think of these cookies?”

“Pop, Mom told me to remind you to get milk.”

“Pop, what time are we meeting Mom?”

"Pop, Mom said we have to be home by noon to get ready for the play."

Anything I could think of to make sure the clerk knew that I did indeed have a mother.

These conversations must have confused and probably amused my Pop, though we never spoke of them.

How I wish we had.

In hindsight, I realized that sleeping in was more to do with being hungover than working late hours.

I’ve written a lot about my mother, her narcissism, and her addiction. If you’d like to follow the saga, click here to start from the beginning.

My father started recording our Thanksgivings and Christmases in the mid-’80s and continued until his death in 2019. Looking back through those tapes gave me insight into our early family dynamics.

Mom was perpetually absent.

Whether from pills or alcohol, she showed up in every frame as glassy-eyed and far away.

When Mom overdosed on her hospice meds last summer, I initially got involved, but not for long. Soon her siblings were monkey-flying about slinging threats and guilt.

I asserted major boundaries. First going low-contact then ultimately no-contact as I realized how detrimental her presence is in my life. I’ve managed to maintain no contact for months now. The benefits to Self and to my soul have been legion.

Because the thing is, I never really had a mother. I had a critic and a gaslighter. A shadow trickster for sure, but not a mom.

Not having her in my life feels normal, natural, right.

But sometimes it hits me-my that my Mother is still alive. She lives and breathes and frustrates those around her regularly. At those times, guilt creeps up into the spaces she once held in my psyche.

Then I call my sister to hear secondhand about Mom’s latest shenanigans, and I laugh with relief. I remember the work I have to do here on Earth and know that there is no place for her in that healing.

And I forget she’s alive all over again.

P.S. ~ Apparently there never was a medical lien on the house. Mom says she “never said such a thing.”

© Kelley Murphy, 2023.

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