Traumatic Teachings in Troubled Times: The Story of My Mother
Before we begin, let it first be well established in the reader's mind that the subject of my mother has long been --and still remains-- one of the most emotionally painful and controversial topics for me to discuss. A lot of my thoughts and feelings regarding her have been kept inside myself for too long. Long enough that I expect that once I've finished this chapter, I'll look back and regard --with no small hint of sadness-- how long it is. What can I say? There's a lot to say. A lot of this withdrawal was admittedly due to the nasty backlash I received from my peers during the times when the wound of her absence was still fresh and her mention was a common occurrence, but I'm sure that sore spot will be mentioned later on as well. Anyway, though I've been able to share portions of this information with close friends, I still remained unsatisfied. I feel the need to have all the events mapped out in one set place to be received all at once.
I'm not going to lie: like most people who've received their share of condescension and injustice at one point or another, I've been left with a bit of a desire to be understood in some empathetic way. Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to use any of my past as an excuse for any wrongdoings I've committed; I know that it was me who ultimately pulled the proverbial trigger. We are prisoners only of our own device, after all. No, that's not my aim here. What I
do hope for (albeit naively, maybe) is to share what I felt was a dynamic part of my life, and then have my audience (even if its just me) derive from it some further understanding of who I am. I want them to see where I came from because it feels important.
Plus, I just gotta let it out for my own sake. I want a sense of closure.
/shrug.
Okay...let's do this:
* * *
Upon dying three times during labor, my mother called it quits after I came into the picture. Truthfully, I don't blame her. I was a medically approved "Miracle baby," and it was my mother and holy aunt's fervent prophecy that I, Angela Marie, was to become a great instrument in the hands of the Lord someday. Through me, they said, He would perform many great works and save thousands of lost souls from the flames of eternal damnation. To briefly recap: I was an only child born miraculously into a household built on the strong, strict, and infallible doctrine of fundamentalist Christianity (Protestant, if you're looking for exacts).
So basically, as you may already be able to tell: I was pretty much dealt a "FML" card from the get-go.
(NOTE TO THE CHRISTIANS: So as to not offend those of faith who may be reading, I'd like to make it clear that I have nothing against the belief in Christ as a savior of mankind through his sacrifice. Neither do I condemn the faith in Judeo-Christian God. I don't, as it turns out, condemn any faith. What I am merely expressing in this line is a strong distaste for extremism of any sort. Sadly, I do find examples of it in the overly zealous, stubborn, and close-minded attitudes/behaviors that, unfortunately, many strongly devout Christians tend to display. However, again, this disdain extends to ANY belief/religion/creed that attempts to inhibit its followers from questioning, seeking, and exploring their faith, and observing other positive messages and practices from different beliefs. Dogmatic thinking, to me, is sacrilegious, especially if one is seeking a truly personal relationship with a deity or a more spiritual lifestyle in general.
My religious philosophies will be the subject of another lengthy set of posts, I assure you. I hope that people of many faiths and beliefs will read them and offer their opinions, inputs, and perspectives, and ideas. Again, not meaning to offend anyone's Religion, just the personally offensive behaviors exhibited by some -- like, for example, my mother).
My mother, Leida, was a fairly pretty woman -- gorgeous when she was younger, according to pictures. She had porcelain skin of a fair complexion and naturally black hair to contrast which she was always dying some shade of red. She carried herself with an heir of (albeit forced) elegance. Early memories of my mother define a woman who was meticulously concerned with keeping proper appearances. Our living quarters were always spotless and organized to the extent of OCD. As a child, cleaning up after myself was a strictly enforced practice as was obedient behavior. If ever I were to make a fuss or scene,
especially if in a public place, all it took was one icy glare to let me know what was waiting for me as soon as we got home. Cold showers (with clothes on) would forcibly extinguish any hysteria. A towel wedged under the door to my room during hour-long Time Outs stopped my escapes during a short-lived rebellious bout. Meanwhile, hot sauce became a popular method of stopping back talk. And, of course, there was always the effective threat of "Pao-pao" -- a.k.a: "ass-beating," for the crackers.
I think it's fair to say that nearly every Hispanic can still look at a "chankleta" (sandal), or belt, and be filled with a strange, fearful respect. You don't fuck with "pao pao," lol.
Now, to some people these punishments sound outlandishly abusive. However, I have to say that they really weren't that bad. In fact, they did a pretty damn good job. Back in these days, she was strict enough to instill the severity of my disobedience in me, while still maintaining the appropriate balance that would allow the punishments to fit the crimes. Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to put my kid through the hot-sauce treatment, but I do agree that sometimes a degree of physical reprimanding is necessary.
I can't tell you how many times I've seen a kid freaking out at a grocery store or Wal*Mart, or hear a five year old giving lip to their parent, only to watch said parent cower away from the situation with lazy exasperation. "Pssht! Dude, if I'd done that my mom would've kicked my ass," I'd think. Really, I give Mom major Kudos on doing a good job with disciplining me when I was really young. It turned me into an exceptionally well-behaved girl. I listened well, was polite with everyone, respected my peers and elders, knew how to diplomatically avoid fights and bullies, understood the ten commandments, used my "please's" and "thank you's," and accepted the consequences of my actions with grace. I was, as my name implied, a sweet little angel.
While my father played the role of a playmate, introducing me to nerdy essentials such as: Video games, computers, anime, music, Star Treck AND Star Wars, as well as instilling in me a love for cheesy martial arts movies and Sci Fi adventures, my mother took care of my education. She taught me my alphabet and numbers, how to read and write. She was my pre-school teacher; she also took great care in teaching me about God and the Bible. Since she strongly disapproved of churches (who had become corrupt by false doctrines and were full of two-faced people), she took it upon herself to instruct me in the Holy Scriptures. I was a bright child, and absorbed these lessons like a sponge. She was proud of me back in those days.
However, during my Middle School years, my mother's mental condition began to accelerate in its deterioration. Problems with my dad added fodder to the subconscious scars that lingered in her mind -- ticking time bombs. As I entered the notoriously "difficult" teenage era, all of these would erupt and consume me with the aftermath of her pain.
I was a straight-A student and made honor roll all but once during my time at Northeast Middle School. My friends were nerds who knew nothing about drugs or deviance, being addicted only to Pokemon and Sailor Moon. Sex was a huge mystery, and the thought of just kissing a boy still sent waves of excitement through me. My idea of partying was the rare get-together at Kima's to watch Inuyasha and play drinking games with Coca-Cola on Valentine's day. But even so, as my Mother's condition began to reach it's cusp, she still managed to find enough flaws in me so as to label me a "Demonic Spawn."
I think the moment that finally broke my mother was the death of her favorite uncle. Apparently, he was the sole figure of all that had been good and loyal to her in a life where even her own mother had betrayed her love. I remember her confessing the gravity with which the situation had hit her. A part of her died that day, she had said, and as it turns out...she seems to have been right.
Now, at the time when this began, I was a die hard fan of Pokemon. School assignments and diary entries confirmed that my obsession with the franchise had reached the point of being a little bit scary. You couldn't read a single assignment without having those damned pocket monsters popping up.Then again, I was a young nerd who had found something I could geek over with my friends. I took pride in being a Pokemon Master and knowing all there was to know about it. I collected every toy I could and even created an Elite Four in my fifth grade class (which got me close to one of my crushes at the time). To me, my Pokemon fandom had gained me many things I enjoyed. Of
course I was going to be excited about it -- I got excited about a lot of things back then; I was hyper. Very hyper.
But thanks to Christian propaganda listing Pokemon as a product of Satanic worship, my mom took my fandom as a sign of demonic possession. From then on, any misconduct could be directly blamed on the "Poke-demons" I was so attached to. In reality, though, it was more likely the normal reactions of a hormonal prepubescent girl to the rabid ravings of a mentally unstable woman. She confiscated everything that had to do with my beloved passion and destroyed them -- even my stuffed Pikachu plushie.
Needless to say, I was just a bit resentful.
That resentment continued to grow as did the restrictions forced upon me. I was no longer allowed to listen to any secular music. Even the soft rock station that was once acceptable was now banned. From here on out, only God's music would be allowed in the house. My mother was convinced that all of her turmoil was due to a lack of holy influence in our lives. Thus, she had to remedy the damages done by the demonic influences by taking righteous action. My house was to undergo its very own Inquisition. Although I didn't agree with her methods, years of obedience enabled me to withstand this sudden streak of strange behavior. Maybe it would go away soon and mom would calm down again. However, I would have no such luck. It just continued to get worse and worse...
It wasn't long before symptoms of Schizophrenia began to appear, and manic depression began to tighten its vice-grip around her heart. She became more violent, going so far as to wield knives against me. Off the top of my head I can recall at least ten instances where I'd had to lock myself into the bathroom to escape having my hand cut off. What kind of crime could merit such a punishment? Allow me to pick one such occasion: After coming home from school to a daily routine of arguments and exponentially more severe beatings, it's safe to say that I'd become a little skiddish around my mom. Whenever she'd lapse into a "friendly" state, she -- being the affectionate sort -- would try to sometimes hug me. By then, however, the abuse had taken its toll and I let out an involuntary twitch/wince, my hand raising slightly to block hers. Well, in her book that was considered physical assault on my part, and the only logical way to handle such heresy was to remove the faulty hand. Off to the kitchen she stormed (again) to pick up her favorite chef's knife, and off to the bathroom I bolted, squeezing the door handle to prevent her from picking the lock open again.
Do you know how fucked up it is to have found a Will and Testament I'd written at age 12? I was convinced I was going to be killed; she'd assured me that she'd be up as soon as I'd fallen asleep to send me into the afterlife. So, with tears aplenty, I had gotten to work assigning all my belongings to my friends. Needless to say I spent many sleepless nights growing up. I'd already seen her stab things before, and she'd already bruised the blood out of me. I felt it was only a matter of time.
To add insult to the injury, I spent every day being convinced that I had become a devil-child. Despite my agitated reasonings: "Mom! What more do you want!? I don't to drugs or bad things, I 'm a good kid! If only you could see half of the things the other kids are doing at my school, you'd know!" the good daughter she'd had was buried and gone in her mind (she'd had a prophetic dream about it). What lived in her stead now, she believed, was a soul bound by demonic forces, blind to its influence. I was a shell, she'd say. She'd tell me the Me of the past, the "good" me, had died. I was, I guess, a zombie. I fought these impossible notions as hard as I could, but no matter how hard you try, once you hear something every day, it starts to make you have certain doubts.
Had I really become a terrible person?
Was I really the one who was making her go insane?
Had the "good" me died?
I know now more than ever that I wasn't to blame; I never was. Sure, I wasn't perfect, but even looking at it all from an objective perspective, I was not at all a problem child. Considering the environmental stimuli, I actually stood my ground considerably well. I never ran away or rebelled with self-destructive behavior. No, I never defied her through action -- at most, I'd argue her reasoning and bring her logic to question. These too, however, were considered ridiculous offences.
* * *
According to my mother, she was a victim of circumstance and people's malice. At some point in time, everyone she'd ever loved or held dear had betrayed her trust: her sisters, her abusive father, her mother, her friends, my dad, me...everyone. Thus, she shut out the world. I lived in a vortex of closed blinds and dark rooms (she suffered from migraines and was sensitive to light. As for the blinds, she was paranoid that people would see her walking around naked, as she almost always was). The house was dingy and unkempt. She'd gone from obsessive compulsive to completely apathetic. She'd go days without showering -- weeks, even. I guess that's depression for you.
Growing up, I was forced to watch one of the foundational influential pillars of my development buckle and crumble under the weight of instability and contorting angst. One moment, we'd be trolling people on the television, or sharing in a deep discussion about society, the next I was getting mirrors flung at me and getting sent up to my room with another 100-sentence assignment.
"I shall not...."
A theory I hold is that one of the reasons my mom hated my words so much was because part of her knew I was right. Most of what I said was well-meaning. Most of what I said were her own words. They were desperate attempts to open her eyes to things she herself had taught me and was now violating. I think she could see herself losing control. Some part of her conscious was aware of her condition and its growing severity. I know this especially because there were times when she'd
tell me this herself. Moments of sobriety when I could see it in her eyes. She could see that she had a problem, and she knew the solution, but she also knew she lacked the strength or will to overcome it. All she had to do was let go of the rancor that had built itself up inside of her -- that, and take some badly needed medication. But, in her mind, it was already too late. She felt too lost, too defeated. So instead she chose to fester...
Flashback:
I was sitting in her room, watching her surf around in the Univision forums. Despite her initial resistance to the internet, after stealing my computer (because I'd been talking to a boy named Angel about different systems of belief, and exploring hidden supernatural potentials -- blessings, as I called them) she became a quick fan. She made herself feel useful by offering council to other forum members, much like I'd done for a while. She was trying to find some sort of appreciation and self worth by living vicariously through the lives of those she'd helped. She probably figured that it may be too late for her, but that the least she could do was help other people live a good life. However, after a while, I couldn't help but notice that the topics that she'd begun to share with me as of late were all dreadfully depressing news stories. Seeing that life in general was beginning to depress me, and it obviously had already done a number on her, I decided to voice my concern:
"Mom...?"
"Mhmm?"
"Why are your stories always so depressing?" It was a simple question. I was genuinely concerned about this. She'd taught me that people who dwelt on certain forces tended to draw them into their lives -- both positive and negative (not such a "Secret" after all, huh!?). Yet, here she was complaining about her depression, cursing god and everything around her, but overall doing nothing to fix her situation. In fact, she was wallowing in it!
I remember her eyes grew dark and enraged almost immediately. I was dragged into the hallway and, as usual, beaten. I tried explaining what I'd meant, but it didn't really matter. I was exiled to my room...again.
The relationship I had with my mother was a bittersweet one, built up of many conflicting emotions. On one hand: she was a wise woman with a good sense of morality and etiquette who instilled in me righteous virtues, manners, and sound advice on love and social relationships, plus she was funny and affectionate. On the other hand: she was an extremely abusive force -- Verbally, physically, and emotionally. She was the embodiment of contradiction: violent and affectionate, intelligent but ignorant, weak but strong... I think I'll forever regard her with the deepest lament and the deepest gratitude.
I remember one of her favorite pieces of advise. She'd often say it whenever she actually caught herself treating me unjustly. She'd say:
"Angela: I know I'm not perfect. I'm far from being a good person in the eyes of God, now more than ever. I know this. I've been ruined by the injustices I've suffered; I know they still affect my life. The least I can do as a good mother is try to teach you through my example. I don't want you to ever have to feel the way I do now. I have a lot of rancor in my heart, a lot of pain I can't let go of. But...God knows, I hope, that at least I've tried my best to instill good values and moral foundations in you and steer you in His ways. To teach you wrong from right and to love Him. I also know I am a hypocrite to many of the lessons and things I teach you; I am not a good example a lot of the times of what I preach, I know. Still, the best thing I can say to you is (and I know this is an unfair thing to ask): please, no matter what you see from me, try to retain the good things I've done and shown you and reject the negative. Keep the things that will enrich your life, and renounce the things that will bind you."
She was right, her request wasn't very fair. How could she presume to excuse herself for her actions under the pretext and hope that I'd discern for myself what was right and wrong? Wasn't she, after all, the self-proclaimed product of a torn up life? Wasn't she supposed to be an infallible role model? How could she teach me one way of thinking and then act in a completely opposite manner the very next moment?
Still, despite all these protests and cries of hypocrisy catering to my passionate temper, tempting my heart to drown out and dismiss her words, somehow I managed to see past the 'unfair' aspects. Instead, I kept to the lesson she was trying to show me. I observed her situation and knew one thing for certain: I never wanted to become my mother. After her sudden removal from my life, I continued to study my mother. I'd wanted to understand her, learn the ingredients that had produced the strange woman that had served as such a puzzling example of what a person could become. Not only did I want to avoid repeating her mistakes, but I wanted to use what I could learn from her situation to save others -- or maybe even save her. I'd failed once, but maybe some day I could. I've given up on the latter notion, but the lessons I've gained have proven useful to me thus far and will probably continue to.
[To be continued...?]
