Green Velvet

I have always seen my mother as an elegant creature. Yes, creature. She was slender, yet shapeless — European, after all: long skinny legs, no hips, no tiny waist, no outstanding features. Her hands and nails very well kept, her hair thin and always kindly arranged. Her nose, small, straight and with a pointed tip. Her teeth, despite the fact that she was a heavy smoker, were perfectly shaped and white. Her cheeks had cute dimples, when she smiled. And I guess she did, because I remember them well. Ah, but her eyes… that was the most impressive of her features. Most of the time, they were green, but when she got mad or sad, they turned grayish blue, so without speaking, I could tell when she was better left alone. Her walk was very feline; very feminine. To me, she was physically perfect. For as long as I had her in my life I was still a child, and for some years a teen, so the way I saw her was limited to my young age, and always biased by the filter of uttermost love and admiration for her.

Of the things I remember the most, was her resistance to live under social norms. She was herself, at all times and with all things. She rarely wore a bra, stating that her breasts needed no confinement whatsoever, and that because they weren’t saggy, there was no need to lift them anywhere higher. She loved to wear skirts and dresses, and always had the trendiest sunglasses. She used her physical qualities to gracefully capture attention, which she generally did — not necessarily gender specific. She just loved to feel empowered, and she was. She loved to share wisdom (which is not the same as knowledge), and she did. She captivated at first glance and whenever she opened her mouth to say anything, she left people mesmerized. She was funny, witty, deep, with a rich vocabulary, yet able to reach out and create impact through simplicity and straightforwardness. She seemed out of reach, to me. Like a cold, strong-willed queen. And the best representation of that was when she was home. Just before all the madness of combining drugs, cigarettes and alcohol happened, she was living her best time (that I recall). She was doing her masters in psychology at UC Berkeley, as well as traveling the world with her boyfriend(s). And when she was home, she would always wear a dark green velvet robe. Nothing else. Her favorite fragrances were a rose scented perfume or Shalimar (which I thought was way too strong). Her favorite things to have nearby were a cup of the darkest and richest coffee in the mornings, a cigarette all day long, and one glass of wine at night. When it was bedtime for me, I could tell she began her routine of lighting candles (the smell of scented, melted wax would reach my room) and she would either read, write, listen to classical music, have some girlfriends over or have a guy over (again, my memory has blocked that part).

I now see beyond the biased perception I had of her. On the one hand, I have seen my mother as this powerful, hard-headed woman who raised a child on her own, while studying a career that lead us to the States for her master’s degree at UC Berkeley. BUT. On the other hand, she always found a way for those around her to help with taking care of me. In Venezuela, I spent days on end at Baba’s house. In the States I spent enormous amounts of time at the Brumbough’s home, and other friends of hers. So, even though I highly admire her for her achievements (as a mother and a human being, in general), I now understand she had enormous amounts of help from people taking care of me. When home, my mother’s presence was so powerful, and she was so mindful of every second she spent with me, that there was always a lesson to be learned or a keen observation that became a conversation that lead to an in-depth analysis that would become something of true value. I loved my time at home, with my mother. I learnt to enjoy the beauty of Baroque music and became passionate about Medieval times, and Renaissance as well. I devoured books that she bought for me, and that I “stole” from her, I played outside until my body ached (tomboyish things like climbing trees, riding bikes, rollerskating, playing with mud) and sometimes I would return drenched but she would smile and not once scold me for playing in the rain. She highly supported my need for nature in all its manners. She let me be. She did not force me to be anyone but myself. On the other hand, she was never tender, never affectionate, never warm. She gave me so much of her intellectual insights, of her brilliant mind, but she lacked loving, physical contact. She would tell me (not read) enthralling bedtime stories, but she would never embrace me nor give me a goodnight kiss. One thing for another, I guess.

And then, in the midst of all the goodness she was living, her downfall began. To this day, I still don’t understand what initiated it. If it was a combination of drugs and booze, if it was something at UC Berkeley that triggered her mental meltdown… there’s no way for me to know. It did haunt me for many years, until some time ago, when I learnt to accept that which I cannot change (‘God grant me the serenity to accept things I cannot change’). It doesn’t matter anyways, some things don’t have explanations nor closure. At that moment, she was surrounded by caring friends, a loving and supportive family, a nice kid, and she was on her final stage of her master’s degree. Sounds pretty amazing, to me. But then again, we sometimes don’t know what even the closest to us are battling. She first cut religion out of her (our) life. On a regular Sunday mass, we arrived very early and she just kneeled on the floor in front of everybody, and sobbed for that hour and a half, constantly asking for forgiveness. That was the last time we ever stepped into a church. Then, she got rid of all her friends. She banned them from contacting her and threw away anything related to them. Family followed: She gathered them together and told them she would be out of their lives, and that they should never contact her (us) again. It was extremely painful and shocking, but the queen in green velvet had spoken her final words. When we returned to Venezuela, by car, she little by little stopped being a mother to me. She stopped making meals, stopped going to the supermarket to buy food, stopped everything except drinking, smoking and writing endlessly. What we lived from, I had no idea. She had stopped her psychology sessions, and when I asked her where did the little money we had, come from, she said that people paid her for her writings. I can only assume that was true, because if not that, what? We were never short of food, even if I was the one buying it. All the bills were paid on time because we never had a shortage of water nor electricity, and she always had money for her booze and her drugs. I learnt to take care of her, to clean well, to wash clothes, to cook, to be tidy and organized, while still attending school by bus because she would refuse to drive, getting good grades, having some friends, finding time to read, dance to my favorite songs, and even take my dog out for a walk everyday. I would even have time to enjoy some tv shows with a glass of cold milk and some oreo cookies, after all was done, and had a boyfriend I could spend time with and enjoy fun moments. I was an excellent CEO of my life, with some tasks that did not necessarily correspond to me, but that I did efficiently.

Having said all this, I loved my mother profoundly and admired her even in the worst of days. I also had hope and longing that she would “come back”. I hoped she’d be back to being that exquisite and flawless creature. I longed for the queen she used to be. I was living an endless groundhog day life of waking up to a person who was no longer available. A person who had empty eyes. And when she finally kicked me out of her life, for real and for good, I held on to that hope and longing more than ever. As years went by and I got married and became a mother, my pain and longing became less heavy. As years continued passing by and some of my children became young adults and made their choices, I questioned my love towards my own mother, as much as I questioned my kids’. I now understand that the unconditional love I had for my mother, was codependency. Unintentionally, my mother raised a codependent child. What I had for my mother was love, yes. And even when what I endured made me resilient and created a drive that makes me overcome any obstacles, it also made me codependent. I accepted so much, I went through so many damaging experiences, and I was so afraid of losing the only thing I had (my mother) that I gave my all to her. The last years of living together, she tried to use her charms to seduce my boyfriend and to turn me against him. She was no longer my guide and protector, I was hers. She cut every thread that kept us together as mother and child. And as I was still willing to play whichever role she needed me to play, I also experienced how she was letting me go. She needed to get rid of me, as her final link to anything she ever cared about in this world. She was dooming herself to a life of confinement and solitude. The final process had begun. I received slaps she justified as necessary, disdainful comments, and criticism for everything I did. I stayed faithful and loyal. To me, there was no other option, even when my father was already around. I stayed by her side. I played my part very well. I loved her, profoundly. Looking back, I say to myself: “No, Ariadna. That is not love. You left yourself aside and lived for your mother. You forgave every single action against you. You put her needs before yours on a level that was not mentally healthy. You undermined your self-confidence, you blew away self-love, you disrespected your very existence. You stopped ‘being’ so someone else could ‘be’. You became codependent.”

“Long live the queen!” as many of my favorite books say… well, she did not… My queen draped in green velvet left this world too early, and at the same time, too late. Much damage had been done, by the time she decided to go.

“God bless the queen!” Absolutely! For always and forever! I adore my mother and only have great feelings and gratitude towards her. May God have her forever in His arms.

I wish she had died as the queen she tried so much to be.

Yet she didn’t. Her elegance, withered. Her brilliance, so exalted that it was incomprehensible. Her distance only caused her a lonely death. Her strength, transformed into stubbornness. Her grace, vanished. Her power, pointless.

Her green velvet robe, nowhere to be found…