My Bad Mother

The Grandmother I lost last week is my Mother’s stepmom. Her husband, my Grandfather, left this earth twenty one years ago, and his departure sparked in my Mother the biggest helping of the crazy anyone might have ever had.  In her twisted mind, her stepmom and half brother and sister only ever pretended to love her to appease her father. Of course, in true crazy train style, she never asked about the misunderstandings, never admitted her thoughts and feelings in person. No, she festered in it for a few years and then went off the deep end and sent a nastygram (her specialty) to my Grandma and swore off that entire side of the family.

My Mom told us kids that my Grandma and Aunt didn’t want us around, didn’t need us. Were busy with their own lives and weren’t interested in making the effort to maintain connections with me and my sister. Meanwhile, she was not taking their phone calls, ignoring their cards and letters, and generally blocking us from having contact whenever and wherever she could. I don’t know that I ever really believed her, but it wasn’t until I got out on my own that I actively questioned this.

I’ve been very clear here about the blood ties or lack thereof. The purpose of that is so that you understand clearly the relationships between all of us. Growing up, I knew that I was not a blood relative of my Grandma and that my Aunt and Uncle were, in blood, my half Aunt and Uncle. However. I never, ever felt lesser than, or excluded, nor was much emphasis placed on blood ties. My father is adopted, so that side of my family isn’t blood either, and it was presented to me as the same thing.

Families are groups of people that love and care for each other. Sometimes they’re blood relatives, sometimes they aren’t, but that isn’t as important as loving and caring for one another. This is what makes family, and this is how I was raised, until my Mother changed her mind.

Because of the ugliness that transpired, my Grandma very specifically told me that if I wished to be notified immediately when she passed, that she expected me not to inform my Mom. She and I had this conversation a few years after I had begun visiting and calling on my own, behind my Mother’s back.

When my Mom went off the deep end, my Dad told me privately that I should not allow my crazy ass Mother to break my ties with her family. “They’re your family too, and don’t let your Mother’s issues come in between you and them.” He suspects that I maintain contact, and I will not confirm this for him. I can’t put him in that position, both because I won’t ask him to keep such an explosive secret from his own wife, and because if he never knows for sure, he can’t use the information to hurt her or me.

Because if my Mother knew where I am right now, and where I’ve been for the past six or so years when I’ve been “camping in Virgina”, I don’t even know what she would do. Disown me, probably, and have another “nervous breakdown”. She would see it as a betrayal.

So rather than booking a flight on one of my passes, rather than meeting her here, I packed up the car and made the nine hour drive, alone. I made the trip because I loved my Grandma very much, and because she loved me. I also made the trip because I love my Uncle and my Aunt very dearly. I wanted to see them, to hold them, to help if I could, and to feel better. To know that as the three of us get closer to our own ends, that we will make that trip together. The last reason I made this trip is to do what my Mother  would do, if she were worth a good goddamn. Be with her brother and sister and honor an incredible woman that never did anything but love and protect her.

I am so very glad I came. It was, in every way, The Right Thing To Do, and the time I’ve spent with my Aunt and my Uncle has been, even under such sad circumstances, wonderful and long overdue.

Still, I wake up every morning angry. Angry that my mother’s absence is quite nearly as powerful as her presence. Angry that these people have reached out so many times, in so many ways to try and understand her, to be understood, to make things right. Angry that I probably remind them of her at some level; my face, my inflection, my gestures. Angry that I have to lie to her. Angry with her for being crazy and causing so many people so much pain. Angry that she’s brainwashed my sister, and still holds so much power over her that I can’t take the risk yet of telling my sister that these people love and care about her, despite what Mom tells her, and quite frankly, they love her the way my Mother should but cannot- without reservation, without an agenda.

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