All about her.

I am exhausted from dealing with my mother. She constantly goes back and forth between almost seeming to understand, to thinking it's just some weird phase I'm going through. She'll use my words against me, as she always has, at her convenience. I told her at one point that I was having a midlife crisis. Why do I tell her these things? Since my wife is transitioning, too, my mother emailed me today saying she thought it must be a "joint decision" and my transition must be part of my midlife crisis.

I wrote her back a rant about heteronormative narratives and how she has always seen -any- change in me or my worldview to be abnormal, but it's not going to matter. She is half the reason I have PTSD; my father is the other half. Why do I bother with her? She is my last living relative. I don't have siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces or nephews, or children, so i suppose maybe that's it.

I hang onto this thread of hope that somehow I can have an adult relationship with this woman, but she constantly infantilizes me. She doesn't just dwell on the past, she dwells in the past; some idealized past where I was a Perfect Little Girl and Granny and Papa and Ieka and Doat were still alive. A note on "Ieka and Doat," - those were the names I gave my grandparents when I was two, and she still calls them that, and I think it's creepy. I also think it's creepy that she only ever called my father "Daddy" and never his real name. I asked her why once when I was a kid and she told me it was none of my business and clammed up about it. 

A bit more about my mother: she lives in two houses, one hers and one that used to belong to my great grandparents, on the same property which was once my great grandparents' nursery. Every single stick of furniture, figurine, picture, knick-knack, and even clothing from three generations are crammed into those two houses, and she will not get rid of any of it. It's mostly a clean mess, it's not like "Hoarders" or anything, but it's still creepy. There are still shelves of figurines and decorative items that haven't been touched since the day my great grandmother died when I was 14 years old. It's nothing short of insanity. Some of these antiques are quite valuable, yet they sit, untouched, as if in a time-bubble, whilst my mother cries poor. 

She wails that I am the only thing that she has, the only reason she has for living. That she loves me "no matter what." Yet, her words and behavior clearly suggest that there are conditions on that love. Not once has she asked me, "How can I help?" Not once has she said, "Well, as long as you're happy and healthy, that's all I care about." (That's what Jaymie's parents said, basically.} I mean yeah, it's a lot to get used to, but if you're a parent, you just want your kid to be happy. You trust your adult child to make their own decisions, unless those decisions are going to actively harm them or someone else. Trust is something my mother and I rarely ever shared, and I doubt we ever will, no matter how badly I want it. And without trust, there is no viable relationship. If I really am all she has, that's pretty sad. 

It's her choice to live an insular life in her little brown house surrounded by giant green bushes so no one can see in or out with her co-dependent boyfriend-of-the-decade. It's her choice never to venture further than fifteen miles from her home and deem visiting me impossible. It's her choice to continually throw Christian literature at me, despite the fact that I haven't been Christian since early childhood (except for that one bizarre born-again phase I had when I lost my mind coming off Paxil.) So many times, I have come close to cutting her out of my life completely. Obviously, I have failed. I wonder if other trans folk have family members that they want to keep in their lives despite the constant emotional whiplash. 

I just don't know what to do. I love her because she is my mother, but I don't like her at all as a person. I almost wish she had voted for Trump. Then, at least, I would have another solid reason to disown her. We have just enough in common that I kind of enjoy talking to her sometimes, but when certain subjects come up, it's a powder-keg. I have to walk on eggshells and keep the subject to the weather, cats, and maybe my health other than "trans stuff." But I can't explain to her what non-binary is, for instance. I can't talk about my gay and trans friends. I can't talk about polyamory. I can't even talk about my past pain. I made the mistake of telling her that I once bought a Plan B pill after sex and she was disgusted with me and said I had killed a baby. Her grandchild. It's still all about her. 

All about her.