I don’t love my mother. I know that, to some, that is un-American and unnatural, but, in reality, I truly don’t love my mother. I don’t hate her, but I don’t love her.
When I was growing up, my mother was an incredibly troubled and abusive parent, physically and psychologically. She had problems controlling her temper, and, when she lost it, she would hit me with anything that she could get hands on. She would come at me so furiously that I would scramble and baracade myself in the bathroom to prevent her from beating me any more. (The bathroom was the safest room in the house. Every room had a lock on the door, but she had the keys. However, in the bathroom, the drawers under the vanity could be pulled out slightly and block the door from opening more than an inch or two.)
I got so that I could see the storm clouds gathering before the actual hurricane hit. When I saw those telltale signs, I would make myself scare.
I remember once, locked securely in the bathroom and crying, I heard her voice on the other side of the door sweetly saying, “Jimmy? Jimmy, if you open the door, I won’t lay a hand on you. I promise, honey!” So I opened the door, and she kept her word. She didn’t lay a hand on me; she beat with a stick instead.
She would destroy my best-loved toys on purpose, smashing them in front of me just to watch me cry. She would humiliate me so badly in front of my friends that I finally never had any friends come over to the house, I would go to their houses instead.
I remember her telling me that I was the reason that she and my father constantly fought. My behavior made them hate each other. I was the one to blame. Me. Even though I was only seven years old at the time.
My father used to tell her that she when I was old enough to move out, I would never come back to visit her. He was right. I haven’t.
After I did move out, she began telling me that the abuse was from my father, and that she, in fact, spent her time trying to protect me. She told me that he knew how to push her buttons to trigger her temper, and that he did it on purpose, knowing that she would take it out on me.
It hurt me and made me angry to hear her run my father into ground. I loved my father. He was the one who did the protecting. He was the one who had the courage to stand up to her when she would fly off into a rage. He was the one who attempted to reason with her. And he was the one, after all of his boys were grown and out of the house where she couldn’t get at them any more, who divorced her.
My dad stayed married to her so that he could be close by to protect us.
(I remember him telling me on many occasions that I should try to find it in my heart to forgive her and love her. Welll, I did one, but not the other.)
Because of this upbringing, I entered adult life with a whole ton of baggage, including:
1. One mean-ass, hair-trigger temper.
2. If not a hatred, then a really deep-seated mistrust of all women.
3. An incredibly low self-image.
4. Addictions
After years of counseling and even a stint “in-house” for twenty-eight days, I have overcome most of these problems, and lead an absolutely wonderful and happy life today. But the mountain that I had to climb to get here was daunting.
I have forgiven my mother. I no longer hate her, but I certainly don’t hate her either. She no longer provokes me. If I never saw her or heard from her again, that would be fine with me.
I do not love her, and I don’t want her in my life. The terror, pain and humiliation that she lavished on me for eighteen years has faded, but it has never gone away entirely. Sorry. It just hasn’t.
I don’t speak ill of her. I don’t get upset when I think about her. I just don’t want her around.
Because I’ve forgiven her, I don’t feel a shred of animosity towards her. I wish her no ill will. To be completely honest, I have no feelings for her one way or another, other than horrorific nightmares that she created for me.
Once I reached the conclusion that I don’t have to love her, I finally found mysef at peace.
I am a very happy man. I love deeply. I feel all emotions deeply. I wear my heart on my sleeve, and I’m not ashamed of that. (It’s just who I am.)
I live in a wonderful little corner of the world with my family, many friends, and my animals. I’m married to the greatest woman in the universe. I have no money worries. I travel. I write. I act. I direct plays. I’ve got a thousand hobbies, such as horseback riding, skiing, sailing and scuba diving.
I ride bicycles with my grandkids and my wife. I get excited when the hummingbirds come back in the spring. I love sitting outside in the warm sunshine. I sit and watch turkeys and deer and fox and even coyotes mix with my horses in my pastures.
Life is great.
There is no place for my mother here.
To be honest with you, if I found out she died tomorrow, I truly doubt if I would shed a tear. There is just absolutely nothing there for her inside of me. No pity. No rage. No revenge-seeking. No love.
I sent her a Mother’s Day card and I called her on Mother’s Day, just to let her know that I remembered her, and so that she wouldn’t feel bad. (I don’t want to make anybody sad or upset.) But picking out a Mother’s Day card was difficult because they all say things like “I appreciate how much you did for me, Mom!” and “I love you so much.” If I sent her one of those, I’d feel like a hypocrite. So, it takes me a long time to pick one that is fairly innocuous.
If I hated her today, then she would still have some power over me. But I don’t.
For the most part, I am a very loving and sensitive man, (Even if I do say so myself.), but for her, as I’ve said before, I feel nothing whatsoever. Nothing.
And it’s okay. In fact, it’s wonderful.
She can’t hurt me any more.
She has no power over me at all.
And guess what? As I sat out on my lawn this afternoon as the sun was setting over the western pasture, I saw my first hummingbird of the season!