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The final tie
Apr. 2nd, 2019 07:54 am It was inevitable that I make a post exclusively about my relationship with my mother, so here goes nothing.
In my very early childhood, our relationship was very good. She taught me things, got me reading at the age of two, There was a period of time in my tweens when she was my best friend. (To be fair, she was my only friend.) But as soon as I started trying to have friends of my own, thoughts of my own, opinions of my own that differed from hers, I was a monstrous thing who was abusing her and did everything I did just to hurt her. She always had to be the victim. She was paranoid, suspicious of everything I did, kept me isolated. She would ground me from the telephone-- not that I had anyone to call except for my grandmother, whom I had a very strange relationship with, but that's another story.
I wasn't really allowed friends. She was very concerned when I formed a friendship with a girl across the street when we were both in middle school. Sheri is Mormon (I'm still friends with her to this day), and my mother warned that their family was going to try to "suck me in." So I was only allowed to play over there for two hours at a time, even though I was right across the street.
Speaking of crossing the street, I wasn't allowed to cross the street alone until I was around 13 years old. My mother was a "helicopter mom" before the term was invented. She had her nose in all of my business. She would regularly raid my room, read my diary, and, of course, read the worst things into it that I never meant to say, making it all about her. (Which assured that the next time, it would be about her, and I'd have to find a better hiding place.)
She was also very concerned when I struck up a good relationship with one of my teachers, my "Special Talents Program" teacher, Mrs. Baker. I would write Mrs. Baker long notes about what was going on at home. Now, as an adult, reading between the lines, I think Mrs. Baker may have been considering getting child protection services involved. (My father is another story -- he was a jackass, too.)
In school, I was undiagnosed autistic and possibly ADHD. My parents would conduct "raids" on my desk or lockers if they felt my grades were falling too far, or my teachers told them that I "wasn't working up to my ability." They would, in front of everyone, dump the contents into a big black trash bag, bring it home with me, and make me explain every single piece of paper in it. Woe if they found anything that did not directly relate to schoolwork. Woe if they found papers with bad grades I'd been hiding. I was made to feel like dirt, admonished and condemned to writing lines or further meetings with teachers. And here's the kicker. My GPA rarely fell below a 3.0.
Like any kid, all I wanted to do was make my parents, especially my mother, proud. But my mother did and still does have an idealized, porcelain-doll princess version of me in her head that I could never live up to. Even though that was never me, I think my mother believes that her version is the "real me" that I've been repressing; "the way God made me." I haven't been Catholic since I started pretending for the sake of my own safety back when I was 8 years old, even though I didn't believe what catechism classes were teaching me.
My mother often made me feel shame. She bragged about how little she ate when I was a chubby kid, and put me on a Slim Fast diet. She once dragged me to confession minutes after she caught me masturbating (I was eleven). But no matter how much shame she made me feel, I just wanted her approval. And now, as I transition, it's no different.
I have tried to educate her. I have sent her two books, and loads of web pages on the subject. I have explained my own story over and over again. One minute, she seems like she understands and wants to be supportive, and the next, she uses that withering tone of disapproval over the phone when I mention going on testosterone and wails about losing a daughter. And when she uses that particular tone of voice, I am ten years old again with the contents of my locker spread on the living room floor. What does she expect to find? Drugs? Satanic texts? The Gay Agenda?
She thinks it's a phase. At 41 years old, she thinks it's a phase. I tried to come out 14 years ago. She thinks it's a phase. I've had dreams since I was a little girl that I had a penis. She thinks it's a phase. "You think God made a mistake?" she snaps. No. I don't worship your god, mother, but I don't believe I am a mistake. I am transgender, and I was made this way for a reason. This journey is my own. All I want is for you to love me as your son as you did as your daughter.
She says "I love you no matter what," and then she says, "You're breaking my heart." I sympathize with her somewhat. It is a shock, and it is a lot to take in. But the way she is acting is beyond bizarre.
The last time I went to her house, she had what could only be described as a shrine to me in my room, as if I were dead, and this was before I came out. Pictures, figurines, and candles all littered my dresser. It was creepy. She is obsessed with my early childhood, beyond what a normal parent should be. She sees me as hers. She always says "You're the only thing I have!" Like being a man has changed my soul. (Even the Catholics teach that the soul is genderless!) Like I'm less of a person, now. Like I will stop enjoying the same things as testosterone changes my body. Like my ethics will change when my breasts are gone. Like my body is still her property because she carried me for nine months.
Why do I try so hard? Jaymie called my Sisyphus last night, and it really does fit. It really is like trying to roll a huge stone up an endless hill. First, my mother sends me a bowtie and calls me "Sonny boy," giving me hope to the point of tears, and then, we have a conversation like we had last night, where she makes me feel like a worthless child.
Why should I even care what this bitch thinks of me? She may have not known what she was doing, may have thought she was protecting me, but she abused me for half my life. She is half the reason I have PTSD-- my father is the other half. (I don't communicate with him.) Why do I want her approval so desperately? Why is her approval and acceptance still the gold standard for my actions to feel legitimate?
I need to let go of her. I need her not to be such a big part of my life. But she is the last living blood relative I can talk to at all. We do get along sometimes. Until I came out to her as trans, our relationship had been improving. But is it worth it? Is it getting along sometimes and commiserating about the weather or medical issues or talking about cats really worth the emotional whiplash? All through my journey, she has been the only thing that has given me any doubt that I am doing the right thing for me. Should I cut the final tie to my old life?
In my very early childhood, our relationship was very good. She taught me things, got me reading at the age of two, There was a period of time in my tweens when she was my best friend. (To be fair, she was my only friend.) But as soon as I started trying to have friends of my own, thoughts of my own, opinions of my own that differed from hers, I was a monstrous thing who was abusing her and did everything I did just to hurt her. She always had to be the victim. She was paranoid, suspicious of everything I did, kept me isolated. She would ground me from the telephone-- not that I had anyone to call except for my grandmother, whom I had a very strange relationship with, but that's another story.
I wasn't really allowed friends. She was very concerned when I formed a friendship with a girl across the street when we were both in middle school. Sheri is Mormon (I'm still friends with her to this day), and my mother warned that their family was going to try to "suck me in." So I was only allowed to play over there for two hours at a time, even though I was right across the street.
Speaking of crossing the street, I wasn't allowed to cross the street alone until I was around 13 years old. My mother was a "helicopter mom" before the term was invented. She had her nose in all of my business. She would regularly raid my room, read my diary, and, of course, read the worst things into it that I never meant to say, making it all about her. (Which assured that the next time, it would be about her, and I'd have to find a better hiding place.)
She was also very concerned when I struck up a good relationship with one of my teachers, my "Special Talents Program" teacher, Mrs. Baker. I would write Mrs. Baker long notes about what was going on at home. Now, as an adult, reading between the lines, I think Mrs. Baker may have been considering getting child protection services involved. (My father is another story -- he was a jackass, too.)
In school, I was undiagnosed autistic and possibly ADHD. My parents would conduct "raids" on my desk or lockers if they felt my grades were falling too far, or my teachers told them that I "wasn't working up to my ability." They would, in front of everyone, dump the contents into a big black trash bag, bring it home with me, and make me explain every single piece of paper in it. Woe if they found anything that did not directly relate to schoolwork. Woe if they found papers with bad grades I'd been hiding. I was made to feel like dirt, admonished and condemned to writing lines or further meetings with teachers. And here's the kicker. My GPA rarely fell below a 3.0.
Like any kid, all I wanted to do was make my parents, especially my mother, proud. But my mother did and still does have an idealized, porcelain-doll princess version of me in her head that I could never live up to. Even though that was never me, I think my mother believes that her version is the "real me" that I've been repressing; "the way God made me." I haven't been Catholic since I started pretending for the sake of my own safety back when I was 8 years old, even though I didn't believe what catechism classes were teaching me.
My mother often made me feel shame. She bragged about how little she ate when I was a chubby kid, and put me on a Slim Fast diet. She once dragged me to confession minutes after she caught me masturbating (I was eleven). But no matter how much shame she made me feel, I just wanted her approval. And now, as I transition, it's no different.
I have tried to educate her. I have sent her two books, and loads of web pages on the subject. I have explained my own story over and over again. One minute, she seems like she understands and wants to be supportive, and the next, she uses that withering tone of disapproval over the phone when I mention going on testosterone and wails about losing a daughter. And when she uses that particular tone of voice, I am ten years old again with the contents of my locker spread on the living room floor. What does she expect to find? Drugs? Satanic texts? The Gay Agenda?
She thinks it's a phase. At 41 years old, she thinks it's a phase. I tried to come out 14 years ago. She thinks it's a phase. I've had dreams since I was a little girl that I had a penis. She thinks it's a phase. "You think God made a mistake?" she snaps. No. I don't worship your god, mother, but I don't believe I am a mistake. I am transgender, and I was made this way for a reason. This journey is my own. All I want is for you to love me as your son as you did as your daughter.
She says "I love you no matter what," and then she says, "You're breaking my heart." I sympathize with her somewhat. It is a shock, and it is a lot to take in. But the way she is acting is beyond bizarre.
The last time I went to her house, she had what could only be described as a shrine to me in my room, as if I were dead, and this was before I came out. Pictures, figurines, and candles all littered my dresser. It was creepy. She is obsessed with my early childhood, beyond what a normal parent should be. She sees me as hers. She always says "You're the only thing I have!" Like being a man has changed my soul. (Even the Catholics teach that the soul is genderless!) Like I'm less of a person, now. Like I will stop enjoying the same things as testosterone changes my body. Like my ethics will change when my breasts are gone. Like my body is still her property because she carried me for nine months.
Why do I try so hard? Jaymie called my Sisyphus last night, and it really does fit. It really is like trying to roll a huge stone up an endless hill. First, my mother sends me a bowtie and calls me "Sonny boy," giving me hope to the point of tears, and then, we have a conversation like we had last night, where she makes me feel like a worthless child.
Why should I even care what this bitch thinks of me? She may have not known what she was doing, may have thought she was protecting me, but she abused me for half my life. She is half the reason I have PTSD-- my father is the other half. (I don't communicate with him.) Why do I want her approval so desperately? Why is her approval and acceptance still the gold standard for my actions to feel legitimate?
I need to let go of her. I need her not to be such a big part of my life. But she is the last living blood relative I can talk to at all. We do get along sometimes. Until I came out to her as trans, our relationship had been improving. But is it worth it? Is it getting along sometimes and commiserating about the weather or medical issues or talking about cats really worth the emotional whiplash? All through my journey, she has been the only thing that has given me any doubt that I am doing the right thing for me. Should I cut the final tie to my old life?
