I’m on dirty vodka martinis tonight.
I did write for my dissertation today; I think I’ve moved beyond my block. I seriously think that this blog has something to do with that. I've promised myself to post daily, so here it is.
The topic is the body image thing: I get quite frustrated thinking about this issue, so I’ll probably write some and edit/re-edit it later.
My mother bought into the family obsession with female figures, facial beauty, and the need for male affirmation. Always bodily fixated, she requires sexual affirmation--whether from males or females--that is, she needs people to let her know her how appealing she is. She’s passed that onto me. But in my mom’s case, the primary means of affirmation--her source of identity--is tied to her fuckability.
My mother’s an attractive woman. But she’s always seen herself as imperfect. She had her first lipo in her 30s, when it was pretty new for non-celebs. Her first eye lift in her early 40s. She’s in her late 50s now, and she wants a full-on facelift, but she’s hesitant (she did speak to me about getting one of those “lunch hour facelifts.” I helped change her mind by sending her links to a CNN report on how often they backfire). Instead, she’s opted for injections of something that fills in her wrinkles. Remember, we're from thrifty working-class folk. So she shops at Goodwill and St Vincent’s, Wal-Mart, Costco--anything that will save her money. She is parsimonious--always worrying about her pension and saving money. She dumped HBO (a channel she loved) because of its cost. But she’s willing to cough up for cosmetic procedures. It’s paid off, though. Every time I visit a cosmetics counter with her she announces “I’m her mother,” and the saleswoman invariably responds “but you don’t…she [me] looks….” [awkward silence].
Of course I look older than her. I’m a smoker, a drinker, and I haven’t paid the obsessive amount of attention to my body and face as my mother does (mind you, she does look terrific) because I've always believed myself ugly--even when I was a making a good income as a stripper. Admittedly, I'm regretting my inattention to my appearance now that I'm aging.
My mother's appearance has a downside, though: she’s been lifelong friends with Ana and Mia. As a consequence, she’s had some health issues; she's perennially ill. More on that in another post, I think.
How did her fixation affect me? Well, she put me on my first diet when I was ten years old. When my body began developing, it didn’t develop the way she liked; she began talking to me about plastic surgery when I was 14. My bust was “too big” and needed to be “corrected.” She continued to advise: I needed surgery on my face, my belly, my teeth. All of this before I was 17, but, of course, she didn’t want to pay for any of these treatments. But she felt it was her motherly duty to point out my imperfections, to inform me of my options, and to leave it at that. I realize she wasn't trying to be hurtful, that she didn't see that I might interpret this as "my mother really thinks I'm ugly." But that is how I interpreted her advice.
She didn't stop with her plastic surgery suggestions until I was in my 30s. The last time it happened, we were in my husband's presence, in her car as we pulled into the family's garage. She said, cheerfully, "you know, there's a new technique. It's called a "skin bra." It would be quick and easy, and [my husband] would really like the results." After that humiliation, I spoke to her. I was pretty passive-aggressive, but I let her know she wasn't allowed to talk about my body anymore. She's mostly stopped.
Boy O boy. This is getting whiny. I’ll cut it loose now. Happy weekend.
Showing posts with label mother. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mother. Show all posts
08 September 2007
04 September 2007
The last time I fell asleep in class
So, why do I drink so much? Well, at first it was to help me get to sleep. Believe it or not, I’m terrified of sleeping tablets--Ambien, Valium, those kinds of things. My mother, however, has taken such things as long as I can recall. I think she’s as hooked on them as I am on booze (not that she’d admit it). Okay, tangent time:
Anecdote: when I was in high school, my mother worked graveyard shift. I was too afraid to sleep those nights when I was alone in the house, so I’d pull all-nighters. It wasn’t bad: we had cable and MTV was still in its infancy. I’d drink coffee and stay awake with Toto Coelo, Duran Duran, Frankie Goes to Hollywood, and a few other bands I'm too ashamed to admit I enjoyed.
One day I went to school after one such all-nighter, and I dozed off in class (admittedly, it wasn’t the first time I’d done this). My teachers discussed my naps, and decided to phone my mother. One did and asked if she had any pills I might have been taking because I was falling asleep in class (funny that drugs ranked first in their suspicions and that no one had thought to speak with me about the situation).
My mother responded by counting out her pills; as I’d been nowhere near her tablets, the counts must have been acceptable. Even so, she still asked me if I’d been into them. This wasn’t the first time she’d falsely accused me of something when I was innocent, so I didn’t overreact. I just said “no,“ and left it at that. But I went to school the next day with a good deal of guilt and shame knowing that all my teachers were convinced of my “drug abuse.”
I’m sure this little scenario isn’t uncommon; I assume it’s happened to many, many teenagers--then as now. Especially now with our drug paranoia at such an extreme--and mine were merely the days of “just say no.”
I should add that, for various reasons (none drug/alcohol related), I was enrolled at an “alternative” high school. Three teachers (addressed by their first names), 60 students. A very cozy situation lacking none of the power struggles and angst of “regular” high schools. There were, however, fewer jocks because we had no gym.
Why is this important? It might not be. Like I wrote: it's an anecdote.
Anecdote: when I was in high school, my mother worked graveyard shift. I was too afraid to sleep those nights when I was alone in the house, so I’d pull all-nighters. It wasn’t bad: we had cable and MTV was still in its infancy. I’d drink coffee and stay awake with Toto Coelo, Duran Duran, Frankie Goes to Hollywood, and a few other bands I'm too ashamed to admit I enjoyed.
One day I went to school after one such all-nighter, and I dozed off in class (admittedly, it wasn’t the first time I’d done this). My teachers discussed my naps, and decided to phone my mother. One did and asked if she had any pills I might have been taking because I was falling asleep in class (funny that drugs ranked first in their suspicions and that no one had thought to speak with me about the situation).
My mother responded by counting out her pills; as I’d been nowhere near her tablets, the counts must have been acceptable. Even so, she still asked me if I’d been into them. This wasn’t the first time she’d falsely accused me of something when I was innocent, so I didn’t overreact. I just said “no,“ and left it at that. But I went to school the next day with a good deal of guilt and shame knowing that all my teachers were convinced of my “drug abuse.”
I’m sure this little scenario isn’t uncommon; I assume it’s happened to many, many teenagers--then as now. Especially now with our drug paranoia at such an extreme--and mine were merely the days of “just say no.”
I should add that, for various reasons (none drug/alcohol related), I was enrolled at an “alternative” high school. Three teachers (addressed by their first names), 60 students. A very cozy situation lacking none of the power struggles and angst of “regular” high schools. There were, however, fewer jocks because we had no gym.
Why is this important? It might not be. Like I wrote: it's an anecdote.
Three's a big girl, then
As a child, I was something of an insomniac. Like other kids, I would fight to stay up with my parents. But I don’t think it was simply a case of not wanting to go to bed. I actually didn’t want to sleep. I wanted to be alert, awake just in case something happened. I don't think nighttime scared me as much as bedtime did, for, as children, we went to bed when it was still light out (about 6:00 during the school year, 8 in summer).
I think my anxiety about bedtime began when I was three.
We moved around quite a bit while I was growing up. When I was three, we (myself, parents, two younger siblings) moved to California. We lived just outside of Los Angeles, and this is where my memories begin. I’m not certain of the chronology, but three big events happened:
1) Fourth of July celebrations! Our parents got us ready for bed, and as soon as it grew dark, my family went out onto the street where neighbors were setting off fireworks. A kind man gave each of us children a sparkler to play with. Poof ! I went up like a firework myself. The sparkler had ignited the cheap, blue, synthetic nightgown I was wearing. I must have passed out. I woke up in the hospital, smelling something horrible (disinfectant? burned skin?).
The next day my mother drove me to my grandmother’s house nearby to show off the nightgown’s remains. She appeared proud of my having been burned; she was clearly excited as she told my grandmother about the sparkler.
(Years later a friend of my grandparents told me that he’d been the one to give me the sparkler, and that when I caught fire he threw me to ground and smothered the flames with his own body. My mother says he’s full of nonsense. I don't know who to believe--I think all of the adults on that July 4th were drunk on ring-pull cans of Coors).
2) First Earthquake! I woke up in the middle of the night because the bed was rocking. My mother, nude, was crouched over me, holding me to the bed (my siblings were cradle-bound at this point). I didn't know what to be more scared of--the earthquake or my mother. Bless her. It was her first earthquake as well.
3) First Abuse! My mother's brother agreed to babysit my siblings and I while the parents went out to play. It was a regular evening, uneventful. When it was time for bed, I helped fill my siblings’s bottles with sugary water and prepared for bed. When I came out to the bedroom to say “goodnight,” he said that, since I was the eldest, I could stay up a little bit later than the babies. I was delighted. I started to watch t.v. with him. I was so young I didn't quite understand what it was he was watching, but I do remember a laugh track, so I'm guessing it was a sitcom. Just a few minutes after I'd settled down ont he sofa, though, he picked me up and bent me over the couch, across the armrest, and he assaulted me.
And then the typical post-abuse story: he told me I was a big girl. A good girl. I wasn’t to tell my mother; I went to bed feeling sick, dirty, ashamed, and unsure.
The next day, I was playing in our empty garage, which smelled of old oil on warm concrete. I was setting “table” on a large, overturned cardboard box. The dishes were cheap, tin toys with Charlie Brown characters on them. A door connected the garage with the kitchen, and it was open while I played. I could see my mom getting things ready for lunch, and I could hear her talking on the telephone. When I heard her hang up, I called out and told her all about the previous night's event. I don't know why I just ignored my uncle's directive. Perhaps I was just a brave kid. Perhaps I wanted my mom to know my uncle thought I was a big girl, a good girl.
She didn’t respond. I went inside to see if she’d heard me, and I found she was on the phone again. When she replaced the receiver, she said “Grandma and grandpa know, and you aren't to tell anyone about this.” Nothing more was said.
Inconveniently, perhaps, I remembered all of it, in a rush, when I was 12. I don't know what provoked the memory (I think my uncle might have been planning to move into the area). Regardless, I remembered. I told my sibling about our uncle had done to a three year old girl. I thought relating the event was perfectly acceptable; all the grown-ups knew. Surely there wasn't anything to hide. Well, my sibling went to the family adults--including our mother--to report what I'd said.
My family--including my mother--told my sibling that I was a liar. They told me I'd made it up. I was misremembering. I had to apologize for telling horrible stories. They pretended I'd concocted the event in order to grab attention and to scare my sibling. Even though I knew I was right, the feelings of dirtiness and shame escalated, compounded by guilt and humiliation. I was pushed out of the family's safety net, usurped by a sibling's need to feel safe around my uncle.
When I was 18, my mother confirmed my story. She justified forcing me to lie by saying "we just didn't talk about things like that back then. We thought it was better if nobody knew" She's right, I know, but that doesn't curb the betrayal I feel. We haven’t spoken of it since.
Two years ago my uncle shot himself in the chest with my grandfather's gun.
Years before, his wife had left him, taking their two little girls with her to another state (I'd always wondered if he'd forced his attentions on those girls, but it could be that he'd never touched a child after me). Following his divorce, my uncle wandered. He actually spent some time doing the hobo thing and jumping trains. Alcoholism and drug abuse incapacitated him to the point where he couldn't work. So he hang out in bars and received disability checks for some ailment.
I felt ambivalent when he died. I still do. I understand the tragedy of a life wasted, of the pain that must drive one to suicide, but I know that if he'd never touched me, everything in my life would have been different. That one action kickstarted a chain of actions. and here I am.
I think my anxiety about bedtime began when I was three.
We moved around quite a bit while I was growing up. When I was three, we (myself, parents, two younger siblings) moved to California. We lived just outside of Los Angeles, and this is where my memories begin. I’m not certain of the chronology, but three big events happened:
1) Fourth of July celebrations! Our parents got us ready for bed, and as soon as it grew dark, my family went out onto the street where neighbors were setting off fireworks. A kind man gave each of us children a sparkler to play with. Poof ! I went up like a firework myself. The sparkler had ignited the cheap, blue, synthetic nightgown I was wearing. I must have passed out. I woke up in the hospital, smelling something horrible (disinfectant? burned skin?).
The next day my mother drove me to my grandmother’s house nearby to show off the nightgown’s remains. She appeared proud of my having been burned; she was clearly excited as she told my grandmother about the sparkler.
(Years later a friend of my grandparents told me that he’d been the one to give me the sparkler, and that when I caught fire he threw me to ground and smothered the flames with his own body. My mother says he’s full of nonsense. I don't know who to believe--I think all of the adults on that July 4th were drunk on ring-pull cans of Coors).
2) First Earthquake! I woke up in the middle of the night because the bed was rocking. My mother, nude, was crouched over me, holding me to the bed (my siblings were cradle-bound at this point). I didn't know what to be more scared of--the earthquake or my mother. Bless her. It was her first earthquake as well.
3) First Abuse! My mother's brother agreed to babysit my siblings and I while the parents went out to play. It was a regular evening, uneventful. When it was time for bed, I helped fill my siblings’s bottles with sugary water and prepared for bed. When I came out to the bedroom to say “goodnight,” he said that, since I was the eldest, I could stay up a little bit later than the babies. I was delighted. I started to watch t.v. with him. I was so young I didn't quite understand what it was he was watching, but I do remember a laugh track, so I'm guessing it was a sitcom. Just a few minutes after I'd settled down ont he sofa, though, he picked me up and bent me over the couch, across the armrest, and he assaulted me.
And then the typical post-abuse story: he told me I was a big girl. A good girl. I wasn’t to tell my mother; I went to bed feeling sick, dirty, ashamed, and unsure.
The next day, I was playing in our empty garage, which smelled of old oil on warm concrete. I was setting “table” on a large, overturned cardboard box. The dishes were cheap, tin toys with Charlie Brown characters on them. A door connected the garage with the kitchen, and it was open while I played. I could see my mom getting things ready for lunch, and I could hear her talking on the telephone. When I heard her hang up, I called out and told her all about the previous night's event. I don't know why I just ignored my uncle's directive. Perhaps I was just a brave kid. Perhaps I wanted my mom to know my uncle thought I was a big girl, a good girl.
She didn’t respond. I went inside to see if she’d heard me, and I found she was on the phone again. When she replaced the receiver, she said “Grandma and grandpa know, and you aren't to tell anyone about this.” Nothing more was said.
Inconveniently, perhaps, I remembered all of it, in a rush, when I was 12. I don't know what provoked the memory (I think my uncle might have been planning to move into the area). Regardless, I remembered. I told my sibling about our uncle had done to a three year old girl. I thought relating the event was perfectly acceptable; all the grown-ups knew. Surely there wasn't anything to hide. Well, my sibling went to the family adults--including our mother--to report what I'd said.
My family--including my mother--told my sibling that I was a liar. They told me I'd made it up. I was misremembering. I had to apologize for telling horrible stories. They pretended I'd concocted the event in order to grab attention and to scare my sibling. Even though I knew I was right, the feelings of dirtiness and shame escalated, compounded by guilt and humiliation. I was pushed out of the family's safety net, usurped by a sibling's need to feel safe around my uncle.
When I was 18, my mother confirmed my story. She justified forcing me to lie by saying "we just didn't talk about things like that back then. We thought it was better if nobody knew" She's right, I know, but that doesn't curb the betrayal I feel. We haven’t spoken of it since.
Two years ago my uncle shot himself in the chest with my grandfather's gun.
Years before, his wife had left him, taking their two little girls with her to another state (I'd always wondered if he'd forced his attentions on those girls, but it could be that he'd never touched a child after me). Following his divorce, my uncle wandered. He actually spent some time doing the hobo thing and jumping trains. Alcoholism and drug abuse incapacitated him to the point where he couldn't work. So he hang out in bars and received disability checks for some ailment.
I felt ambivalent when he died. I still do. I understand the tragedy of a life wasted, of the pain that must drive one to suicide, but I know that if he'd never touched me, everything in my life would have been different. That one action kickstarted a chain of actions. and here I am.
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