Emotional work and christmas diatribes

 it is tibs eve in our house and I am listening to the quiet pitter-patter of my sister and her boyfriend downstairs. 

I am trying not to be angry about the conversation I just had and the emotional regulation that is trying to be projected onto me. My sister doesn't want me to feel the way I do about my relationship with Mom. She has told me to stop talking about the way that I do and that I need to recognize that Mom loved us. While I get that my mother loved me, the truth of that is just as real as my experience with her was. The hardness and the difficulties I had with my own mother is still true at the end of the day. My experience with her is still the reality I grew up with and sugarcoating it because she loved me feels like a form of abuse. It reminds me of what the abused say in order to continually go back to their assailants. They love me, this was all just a misunderstanding. They loved me and it really wasn't that bad... They love me... all the while I can understand and comprehend that both of these things can be true. She did love me. She wouldn't have fought so hard to have kids if she didn't want me... She wouldn't have tried to protect me so voraciously if she hadn't, but she also perpetuated the abuse she grew up in. Probably because she didn't know any better... but I can almost guarantee with everything that I have heard that my childhood was much more idyllic than hers. I believe that is what all parents do, try to improve upon the parenting they had received with the next generation... which I sure as hell hope that is something I am doing but it is hard to know when you are knee deep in it. My mother was difficult, she didn't pull punches, she was harsh, she picked me apart... but like my sister also pointed out that I was "difficult" that I had "many flaws" and that I created some of the problems... 

I was angry that she brought up the birth of Sterling, and to be perfectly honest, what Carly doesn't know about that particular day could fill a fucking book. The multiple phone calls of my mother telling me I had to do it her way and that it was inconvenient that I was giving birth, and if I would just follow what she had asked, this would all be handled and or at least in hand. Did I test her? You're god damn right I did. Did I push back, absolutely... because anyone giving birth shouldn't have to jump through hoops to appease family. It all just seemed brutal. My father handled the situation... they showed up, and then my mother was miffed that I kicked her out of the room. I kicked her out for my own reasons, but believe me, it was not malicious. Carly told me that mom was there for me and that is all that matters... but I remember that day so very differently that the difference of the day, in my mind, does matter. The trauma inflicted is something I will never forget. It is why I want to be different than what she was... I don't want to be like that... I will never be like that... I try, every time I speak to my children, to take a different tack. It is why I didn't back down tonight. My sister has had drinks and is saddened that I won't just tell her exactly what she wants to hear, but ultimately, I can't and I won't. While I love my mother, I can also be vehemently angry with her... Both can be true all the same. 

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