I detest Mother’s Day. I grew up in a house run by a violent, drunken narcissist and her violent drunken husband. My mother had four children she didn’t want and made sure we knew she didn’t want us. We used to go camping when I was a kid. As we would pull into a campground, we’d be asked if we have any pets. “No, just four rotten kids.” She thought she was funny. Ha. Ha. Ha.
Later, my narcissistic mother would tell my siblings if I were invited to the party, christening, First Communion, or other family functions, she wouldn’t come. My siblings, who have oatmeal where their backbones should be, always acquiesced.
Once, I made the mistake of asking my mother and the drunk to go with me to my psychologist.
During my session, my mother told me, “No one likes you and you know that’s true.”
I cannot honor a mother who hated me.
I’ve never wanted children and I made sure I never got pregnant. I cringe when clerks and servers wish me a happy mother’s day. Why do these people assume I have children?
I cannot participate in a day where I’m constantly reminded I didn’t buy into the Feminine Mystique. The undercurrent of their wishes is that I’m somehow not normal.
I’ll spend tomorrow being grateful that my email box will no longer be filled with ads for mother’s day. I’ll be grateful that the ugly memories can be safely put away for another year. I’ll rejoice that I had the courage to swim upstream.
Deb's Art 