You are my sunshine…

Photo image Bethany Webster

My mother, Eileen, passed away two years ago today. All I felt was relief and freedom, and I vowed not to go through this again with her through all bands of time.

The photo I chose came from an article written by Bethany Webster. I wasn’t sure what image I would use for this post, but then I saw this one.

For the last two years, I’ve worked through a lot of emotional shit my mother put me through. I am still working hard at it. 

I haven’t been able to forgive the 50 years of constant emotional, psychological, and sometimes physical abuse. This shit has fucked me up big time.

There were too many mean attacks to remember or write about. I learned to always be on guard early because I never knew one would come out of nowhere. 

Now that she is gone, I still cannot fathom, as a mother, how she could have behaved toward me the way she did. 

When I see nine-year-olds, it’s unbelievable how anyone could turn on a child or treat them like Cinderella. How? Where did her anger and punishments come from?

I know my mother was whacked as fuck and conveniently forgot how she really treated me, or so she made it seem. Meryl Streep had nothing on my mother, who could act up a storm.

The photo with the mother holding the umbrella for the little girl struck a nerve. My mother appeared to take care of me, watch out for me, and love me.

However, in the shadows, only close family members knew differently but never came to my rescue or said anything. This I learned from my Godmother before she died; the greatest gift I ever received was finding out it was her and not me.

The photo reminded me of what my mother told me; she always sang “You Are My Sunshine” when I was little anytime we heard it. I don’t remember that ever happening; I remember things from 3 to 4 years old. 

She called me “love” as an adult, which turned my stomach; she called me “you stupid son of a bitch” on an almost daily basis growing up. I cringe, still thinking about it.

The photo’s shadows remind me how I never told anyone about my life. My friends knew I couldn’t stand my mother, and I was often sick with ulcerative colitis. That’s all I let on. No one could stand their mother at times; this was different.

I think about why I never spoke with anyone about her. First, I didn’t trust anyone to tell for fear it would worsen things. I had no one to talk to. I still get angry with my father since he never once helped me. Why? I thought I was “daddy’s little girl.”

While cleaning the production kitchen this morning, I spoke to my mother directly. In a nutshell, I told her I wasn’t over the monster she was. I may never be.

I didn’t thank her for the abuse that made me a better, stronger person. A person who never gave her the satisfaction she was always looking for. She would stare at my face to see my reaction. She didn’t deserve it. Call me Poker Face.

I tried as hard as possible to summon a good memory, which there was, but I couldn’t. I can’t smile when I think about her or miss her.  That’s how she left me, raw.

I know it’s all me that still tortures myself by her actions, so I try to push anything to do with her out of my head. I’m getting better at it.

I did think of her today because it’s the day she died. That’s it.