Contemplation

My mother. Kate.

 The MotherBeast

Today is her birthday. She was eighty-three in this photo. She had been telling me she always wanted to take a day cruise on the St. Croix River, so I booked one for us. That day she was gracious  and happy. She had told me a couple of years earlier how she wanted to tour New England in autumn, that now she had no one to go with. I looked at bus tours, I didn't want to drive there, and found a luxury tour. Comfortable bus, everything would be done for you. All you had to do is show up. It was expensive, but hassle-free, which was necessary because she was not. Hassle-free, that is. I told her I would book it and pay for it if she wanted to go. You'd have thought I was offering her a shot of arsenic. She did not want to go with me. I did not book the tour.

Kate had a personality disorder. I knew something was wrong with her, seemingly my whole life. Face to the public, what you see in the photo above. Inside the walls of her house; mean, demeaning, raging beast. I was groomed to take "care" of her. I never stopped trying to please her, all the while despising her. It's messed up, but that is what continuous  abuse does to a person. My father moved my grandma, Kate's mother, into our house when I was about ten. This is what saved me, having grandma around, which curbed Kate to a degree. Grandma was gone often, to stay with a friend, so it wasn't all sunshine and roses. 

On the outside, I was the privileged kid. I had a horse, I had skiing lessons, nice clothes and vacations. It was very important to Kate that she be seen as the kindest, most generous of mothers. I would have been better off poor but loved. She sent me to a finishing school over the summer when I was 14. Then she berated me for thinking I was so superior because I knew things she didn't. I did not ask to go there, what 14 year old wants to spend her summer learning the proper placement of cutlery? It was all about how Kate was seen from the outside. 

I have a younger brother. Kate doted on him, having a son was the crown jewel. The doting was perhaps more toxic than the disdain she showed me. He separated from the family twenty-nine years ago. I have no idea where or how he is. Separation was what we knew. By the time I was eleven all family on both sides disappeared from our lives. The exception was my grandma, who lived with us, and a cousin, the daughter of grandma's oldest child. Kate's niece, eleven years older than me. Grandma and Marie were my cushions. I finally stopped talking to her, something I did every day since my father died in 2010. She finally put me over the edge. I told her I was done, I wouldn't have her warping reality anymore. She said fine, hung up and that was that. This was eight months before she died.

Kate died May 4th, 2020. Peacefully, sitting in her rocker. It appears she died in her sleep. I'm glad it was an easy death. It's been a process and I know I will never have her out of my head, but having the knowledge she's actually gone and can't hurt me or my son anymore has helped. My son has become more interactive with us in the last couple of years. She was toxic to him, as well. He told me for as long as he can remember she tore me apart in front of him. Sometimes my father would tell her to stop, but mostly he protected himself.

Families are complex. What you see isn't necessarily what is there. Mothers are not sainted because they give birth. Fathers can be cowardly. Siblings can be set against one-another. You never outgrow abuse, you learn to deal with it. My brother was better off getting away from it, but if he hasn't looked it in the face and worked through what she did to him, he is still very damaged. I am getting there. I don't forget she is dead anymore. I don't dream of her raging in my face anymore. Small but useful steps.