Dear diary readers, I did well today. I woke up in the morning, took my supplements even though they were late, delivered two resumes, and most importantly, I returned to my workout early, fully, and fiercely. I did it better than ever before! And all this before having breakfast... (which isn't exactly a good thing, but I just don't have much appetite in the morning before doing anything, and didn't want to exercise on a full stomach or put it off)
This is important because the last time I did my workout, I didn't do the third and last part of it, my leg lifts, which are tough and require endurance: Lie on back, with legs straight, lifted just slightly off the ground, and hold them there, as still as possible, for ten seconds... Then, gradually (as possible) raise until they are upright, above the pelvis, and hold there for another ten seconds. Lower and repeat. I try to do this ten times each time I work out, though I so far always have to take a break at least once in between - usually this means I do it in two sets of five repetitions. Today, I did a set of three, a set of four, and another set of three.
Besides just picking up and getting back into doing a part of my workout that I failed at last time, I also beat my record time for the plank (part one of my workout) with 75 seconds to beat last time's 73, and my earlier number of crunches (part two) managing 21 today, at which point I actually noticed that I was feeling the effort in my thighs as well as abdomen. I wonder, is that supposed to happen? I collapsed after my first set of three leg lifts, and had to take a few minutes' break before doing another set of four. After that, another short breather, and while waiting for my abdomen to recover enough to complete my routine, I decided to do something else in the mean time - so far, my workout is all building the strength of parts of my body by using them to lift and hold the weight of other parts of me. Cardio workout is also important, though, and I remember hearing somewhere, though I have no idea about the credibility of the source, that while you'll build muscle with strength training alone, it won't help you lose fat much...
So I settled on something easy that I know how to do, and did some jumping jacks. Forty, to be precise. I was thinking I'd do twenty, but I made it past twenty without much difficulty, so why stop there? At thirty I was getting a bit worn out, and by forty, where I decided to stop, I was starting to feel like I couldn't do much more, so probably a good stopping point.
I paced for a while, and had a glass of water, taking deep breaths and getting ready. "Just three more legs," I kept promising myself. I know the last ones are always the hardest - your muscles already ache, and the seconds drag on impressively. But... I did it. Just, but I did it. And I feel... triumphant. Roooooaar! Snarl! I am victorious! **chuckles**
And then something else happened.
I got an email from my mother.
The last notable time I remember this happening, she was writing to tell me that her father, my grandfather had died. Had. Died. Just to put this in a little bit more perspective... I was living not that far away. I didn't know he had taken ill. I don't usually stay in contact all that much with my family, and no-one had told me. I might have, could have, had a chance to visit him one last time, if someone had, but... ... I didn't know a thing about it, until my mom sent me a short email to tell me she thought I should know he was dead.
I got along well with my grandfather. He was a friendly, jovial type, a poet, and a musician, who played clarinet and french horn. I hadn't seen him since a family gathering over a year before. Never would again.
Now let me explain. My mother and I are not on good terms, and as far as I'm concerned never have been, at least not since before I can remember. Growing up, it was perfectly clear to me that whatever I ate, the clothes I wore, and even the additions my use made to the electricity, internet and water bills, were all taxing costs to her. We grew up in poverty, so I can understand that, to a point... But getting a pointed look whenever I put cheese on a sandwich (because 'cheese is expensive - not to mention fattening!') was... well. Just another part in the larger picture, another reminder that she was only putting up with the costs I inflicted upon her because she was, or considered herself to be, a good mother.
That much might not have been enough for me to hate her, and wouldn't be a very good excuse. No...
Mom worked a lot of the time I was home in late elementary and high school - sometimes I was lonely all by myself in the house, but not all that often, and I could always go for walks around town if I got bored. For the most part, being alone suited me fine. When she was home, though... The most common question she ever asked me was whether I had any homework, or had done it yet. She didn't seem to care that I was bullied terribly, even when I told her about it. Whether she just didn't know what to do or say about it, and so simply did nothing, or whether she didn't take me seriously, or whether she figured it would be good for my character in the long run, I have no idea. She smoked, and out of a sense that it was bad to smoke in front of youth for the sake of their health, eventually ended up designating one room of the house a smoking room, so she could smoke without going outside all the time. The smoking room had its own door, which at first didn't work, and plenty of windows to let the smoke out, which was good...
And after a while, also had a television in it. At that point, she seemed to spend almost all the time that we were both home in the smoking room, often with her boyfriend, even if neither of them were smoking. I am, again, not sure whether this was a deliberate measure to avoid me, because the smoking room was somewhere I refused to go because of the smell, but it served as such, and made her difficult to get the attention of or approach. Being alone in a house, to me, has never seemed to be a bad thing, really. There is a sense of privacy and a certain thrill to having the place all to yourself, even if only for a short time. The same cannot be said of being alone, quite profoundly alone, when there is someone who supposedly loves you in the next room over... and you can't bring yourself to try to talk to them.
I know, because she told me once, that she found my tantrums, the times when I was upset and angry and needed attention, to be frightening, and that this is often why she avoided me when I most needed someone to talk to - or complain to - or scream at. Forgive me for thinking that this is not a very good excuse for avoiding, rather than resolving, conflict with one's own child, or for that matter, an example of good parenting.
The worst thing was, by far, that effectively speaking, I was not allowed to disagree, and I was not allowed to have social needs - like attention, or a hug, or forgiveness. Such things were given if I was in all ways co-operative, sometimes. If ever I objected to being shouted at because I didn't immediately come to help bring in groceries after my mom was having a hard day, or was frustrated because she had a habit of phrasing what were obviously meant to be commands as questions, along the line of "Would you like to help me with supper? ...What do you mean, 'No'!?" I would be subjected to a tirade of insults and labels, including "selfish," "insolent", "rotten", "bitchy", "spoiled brat", "inconsiderate", and several others.
And she never. Ever. EVER said she was sorry or apologized to me without some form of the following attached to it:
"but you treat me just as badly or worse than I treat you"
"but I don't have the patience..."
"but if you're being completely impossible, I don't see how you expect..."
"but I deserve respect too"
"but what goes around comes around, missy"...
et cetera. She seemed constantly, utterly convinced that every time I got angry, every time I needed or wanted more than she was already giving, it was a conspiracy to guilt-trip her.
She even hit me, once - just once, that I can ever remember. We were arguing, and I think I had shoved her. I don't remember the context, exactly, but she slapped me soundly across the face. I was shocked, and more surprised than anything. It stung, yes, but the pain wasn't really important. Just the shock of the fact that she had hit me made me go kind of still for a second.
And I would be willing to forgive that, in and of itself.
A minute later, and ever since then... She denied it ever happened.
Of course... like everyone, mother has her good sides. Her cooking was fantastic, and she had a good singing voice. She sometimes used to sing songs to me in the car, and I still remember and can repeat several of them, including "Waltzing Matilda", "Donna Donna", "Somos El Barco", and several others. She had a strong sense of humour which was sometimes cringe worthy, but we enjoyed joking back and forth at each other sometimes, and I could often amuse her with my silliness.
There were things I thank her for, like teaching me how to make a really good tuna salad sandwich, which remains one of my favorite meals, in some variation or another, to this day. But the good neither outweighs nor excuses the bad.
For the past several years, most of the time since I left home at 18, really, I have usually maintained a stance of diplomatic silence towards her. She occasionally attempts to contact me, but I rarely respond, mostly because her message is usually along the lines of "I'm ready to make reparations if you are, the ball's in your court", and mentioning how much she wants to patch things up. Again, as always, subtly making it seem as much dependent on my initiative, and everything as much my fault, as conceivably possible.
I have no response to that that I expect to be of any use, so I do not respond. There is nothing I can say that would be honest without inciting a fight. I am too angry, too bitter and cynical and too aware of the subtext of it, not willing to put up with it, especially not from her, not any more. No. I am not, ever, going to be caught nodding politely and saying "Yes, mother," while she lists my crimes against her. I have never been willing to do so, which is why we used to fight so often, and I sincerely doubt I ever will. Not even if I have no house to sleep in in dead winter. Death first.
At some point in the year after I left home, I don't remember precisely when, she informed me I was no longer welcome at her house, as a guest or otherwise. And since then, well. More or less this. Mostly silence. Very occasional breaks in it.
So... she sent me an email today, surprisingly completely blank, just with a document attached to it. I was tempted to just delete it, because I wasn't sure I had the patience to take this today... But I opened it anyway, just to see what it was.
It was a short letter, written in red and in the shape of a heart, for Valentine's Day.
It read:
"It's been several years since I took the steps I did toward (or rather away from) you. It was probably the hardest thing I have ever felt that I had to do, and has not become any easier, really, with the passage of time. I know I have not always been the best mom. I have my shortcomings and blind spots, as do we all. Though, for better or for worse... I am your mother... and I love you, have always loved you and will always love you more than you may ever know. I have so longed for a healing of the scars which we have inflicted upon each other over the years, and to be able to share a harmonious and supportive relationship. I realize that it would have to be a combined effort and also may not be easy. I had been waiting and hoping that you would be the one who would initiate a reconciliation with me, between us, though perhaps this is more than I should count upon. And the thought that we may never reconcile is more than I can bear. I just wanted you to know that I'm still here, still love and miss you and still wait, with hopes and prayers for you. Know that you are in my heart.
What more can I say ~ In my heart ~ on Valentine's Day"
I don't really know what to say to this. It shocks me almost like that slap, way back when... Surprisingly, this is a lot more mature than she usually is, and contains much less blame, if you can believe that. She's... certainly made progress.
And yet at the same time, it enrages me the way her messages usually do, with implications that most if not all of this is entirely my fault, or at least somehow my responsibility.
I imagine the way I feel right now might be akin to the way an openly and happily gay person might feel reading a similar letter from his or her deeply religious and traditional parents.
She's making progress. Which impresses me, and indicates that she really is trying to make some form of compromise with me... and just falling well short of the mark. She doesn't know how to do this. She may not even understand why her words are offensive to me, to her they're just the simple truth of her perspective...
I don't know. Either way, it hurts.
I don't plan to answer her. I still don't have anything to say to this, and it is essentially the same message she's been sending me over and over (kind of like the endless internet-regulating bills currently being pumped out by media interest groups in the U.S...).
However... it's... better, this time. And if she keeps getting better this way... Maybe someday, maybe even someday not too distant... Maybe I will.
