| Guilt and Anger |
[May. 6th, 2008|10:07 pm] |
The two have always gone hand in hand for me. I feel guilty, I get angry, usually at myself; I get angry at anything and the guilt floods in. It's a pattern that has been firmly established ever since I can remember, and that's not a idle boast. The therapist who actually helped me and I discussed it at length several years back, and guilt is firmly embedded in all the Freudian constructs of my soul.
The cause of this guilt is my mother. (How cliched!) I don't know how it started and I can't dig into memories I'd rather forget, but one night remains indelible. I might have been three, not older than four certainly. My mother and my father were fighting, about what I had no idea then or now, and I was in bed, wide awake, listening to the shouts and the screaming. I knew my mother and father didn't like each other very much, because my mother was always yelling at my father about something. This might was different, though, because instead of storming to the bedroom and slamming the door, my mother left. I heard her get her car keys, open the garage door, start the car, and drive away.
There I lay on the bed, too scared to cry, knowing that my mother had left. Was she gone forever? Would she ever come back? My father didn't come into my bedroom, didn't talk, didn't say a word or make any noise, and I was far too scared to go to him. After an hour or so spent checking the Raggedy Ann clock over and over again, I heard my mother's car pull into the driveway.
My relief was short-lived.
After a little while, my mother came into my bedroom, sat down on the bed, and started talking to me. I don't remember most of what she said. I know she apologized for yelling so much, and for leaving without telling me she was going. Then came the words that seared me, the words I remember to this day.
"If I didn't have you, I could leave. I could get away from here and I could be happy. But I have to stay here with your father because of you."
It was my fault. It was my fault my mother wasn't happy. It was my fault she had to stay. It was all my fault, because I existed.
She never took those words back. I don't think, in later years, she ever remembered she said them. She didn't have to remember, because similar words were said to similar effect over and over again throughout my childhood and well into my adulthood.
It was all my fault.
And whenever I broke, and spoke aloud about how guilty she made me feel, I heard the words that I'm sure many mothers say, but not always to such devastating effect:
"If you didn't do anything wrong, you wouldn't feel guilty."
My original sin was existence. It was my fault for being. Her suffering came from one place, me. The guilt was deserved. I was there, therefore it was my fault.
All this guilt made me very, very angry, but I wasn't angry at my mother, I was angry at me. If I was better, if I was perfect, maybe I could start to make up for all the misery I caused, maybe I could make it better for the people forced to deal with me. I carry this burden to this day; when the depression comes, so do the feelings of hopelessness and worthlessness, the knowledge that my very existence is a cosmic mistake, a freak accident of no good ends, and that even my death would never, could never be atonement enough for my sin.
Fast forward a whole lotta years. Distance of mind and of body from my parents has done me immeasurable good. I'm able to analyze much of why I am what I am without the emotional jolts of contact. Progress is made in that I only detest my existence every third day, at most.
Then my mother finally goes to the doctor after too many years and Guess What?
Yup. Cancer cancer cancer! And suddenly, maybe I wasn't all that bad after all, and don't I want to start talking to her again because gee how she misses me and loves me? All this comes filtered through my father, who has picked up a few passive-aggressive moves from the playbook over the years.
No. I don't want to talk to her again, and no, I'm not going to forgive and forget twenty-five years of constant emotional abuse. Yes, I know this makes me a hard-hearted selfish bitch, but I can't go back. And yes, I do feel guilty, especially after my father called tonight and more or less heavily hinted that I should come visit soon, because my mother has taken a turn for the worse lately and is pretty sick. (Yeah, she never did leave him.) I did go back for a visit a few years ago after her diagnosis and surgery, and she displayed the expected regret. But she never apologized, and I never told her I loved her, because that emotion died in me a long time ago.
And that doesn't make me guilty or angry. Just sad. |
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happy
cold
contemplative
sleepy