Death Perspective
My mother died Sunday. She was in the ground by Tuesday. May God unbless her soul.
My mother was a disliked woman, and that’s me being nice. She was neurotic. The kind of woman who walked around with a dog leash but we didn’t own a dog, she hated them. She spoke ill of family, even iller of strangers. She was driven by money and self-advancement in social circles that used fancy words and bought things like art and aged cheese. Aged cheese I got. Stinky yet tasty. Spending thousands on a painting that looks as if it would have come in third at an elementary school art competition. I did not.
My mother left my father after he quit his job at a computer company to teach college kids math. That was an unforgivable act to my mother. She left two weeks after my father quit. They had a huge argument. She told him she needed a man with balls and ambition. If she wanted a dickless man, she would have married a woman. It was as if my father quit his job to become a dish washer or an unemployed writer. Only in the hogfuck crazy mind of my mother would becoming a college professor be so pathetic. I was eleven when she left. I spent every other weekend with her but even that seemed to pain her. Being with her daughter was an anchored weight of annoyance she only dealt with as to hold up some form of appearance as a good standing mother to her wannabe friends. I swear if I were drowning my mother would have tried to distract the lifeguard in hopes that I’d die. She could then be the mourning mother who lost her sweet little girl. She’d do anything for attention. To be the center of discussion was her love in life, its pursuit her purpose.
I died on Sunday. My funeral was on Tuesday. No one cried. There were tears, but they were, “I’m at a funeral this is sad,” tears. No one cried for me.
My daughter sat next to my ex-husband. Neither of them shed one tear but she had an anger in her gaze as if she wanted to dig me up and yell me something good. I regret many things in my life but right now what I regret most is having been the type of mother that would cause her daughter to have such a look on her face at her funeral. A daughter who sat pissed, not sad, as they tossed dirt on my casket.
I had my faults. I was selfish and distant at times. Cold, I’m sure was used a lot in my absence. And bitch. I don’t regret being a bitch. That’s normally people not being comfortable with a strong minded woman. Cold, I regret. I wish I could have expressed myself better. Especially to those I cared most about. I loved my daughter, a lot. I don’t know why I couldn’t express it. Maybe I was built to be a stone-faced-afflicted loving person. Cursed with the inability to show the affection I felt. Or maybe I just didn’t try hard enough. Maybe I was too stubborn in my — this is me: deal with it — attitude.
I should have been more flexible in my ways. More open to change and criticism. Instead I was a bull who only saw red when you didn’t understand me. Getting angry and shutting out was how I dealt with my problems, it was my protective cloak. I wish I had took the time to talk. To express my thoughts and feelings in careful words not hurtful screams. This haunts me most when it came to leaving my ex, Grant. He was a sweet, kind man. Who was brilliant but lacked ambition.
He also happened to be arrogant, aggressive and a massive cheater. He was much better at projecting falseness than I. Me, if I was pissed you knew it. With Grant, you’d never know. His demeanor, happy or angry, was given the same level of false smile and handshake. One day he comes home, saying he quit his job and was going to teach finance in college. I didn’t agree with this decision and wished he had spoken to me first, but I had already grown comfortable with not saying anything when it came to Grant and his work. He made it clear, on several occasions, that since he was the sole income in our household he, and only he, had say on things which had relevance to money. As a strong minded woman this irritated me. But as someone who wanted nothing more than to lead a better life from the poverty I grew up in, and admittedly needed the acceptance of that higher class crowd, I succumbed to his bullish reasoning and stayed hushed so I could keep my house with its big kitchen and cars with leather seats and racks upon racks of dresses and heels I did not need. I stayed shut mouthed to the money as long as I got to spend it. I even turned a cheek the first two times he cheated because I didn’t want to ruffle the feathers of the goose who was laying me golden eggs. But as cheat three and four surfaced, shut mouth I could not be.
We argued, but it was more me yelling and him nodding. He knew an apology and a pledge to never cheat again would put us right back on track to our delusional happiness. I was too frightened to leave the life I was in. Too comfortable with the ease of it. And I dreaded the idea of living like my mother. Penniless, pathetic and bitter. Grant would say his part. I’d do mine by moving on, pretending as if nothing had happened. He and I both silently agreeing to one day redo this whole song and dance when he cheated on me again.
To be honest, it wasn’t Grant being with other woman that got to me the most. It was how other women looked at me, thinking me pathetic or even worse, feeling sorry for me. The same looks my mother would get when she’d “somehow” forget she didn’t have enough money to pay for the groceries she grabbed at the store.
I found out that Grant’s quitting wasn’t this deep desire to be a professor but a forced resignation for fucking his boss’ assistant — who the boss happened to be fucking too. Busy lady. This info led to a huge argument, me yelling loudly and Grant nodding in conjunction with the spiked increases in my volume. Grant had a certain level of I-don’t-give-a-fuck with his nods. It was clear he had zero respect for me and I take partial credit in that because I should have never turned a cheek in the first place. But I couldn’t be in a house with someone who saw me as nothing more than a meal cooker and easy pussy. I left the next day.
I was never the same again. I became my mother without realizing it. I wasn’t penniless, alimony kept me afloat, but I was every bit as pathetic and bitter. Unable to shake my rage it consumed me whole. Spilling out on those around me. I became more distant, an emotional island not expressing any resemblance of affection. Not even to my daughter. She loved Grant, a lot, and it irked me. I know I should have been bigger than that. I was her mother. But it’s amazing how easy it is to revert to childish selfishness as an adult.
I wanted to tell her many times how her father wasn’t this perfect man — he was an arrogant, self-absorbed prick who wouldn’t keep his pecker in his pants. But I never spoke of that truth. I didn’t want to chance her alienating her father, or he her. I know what it’s like to grow up without a father’s love and I didn’t want that for my daughter. I love her too much. Even in death I can feel her.
I wish I could come back long enough to tell her… “I’m sorry for not being better.” To let her know that I love her with every ounce of my bones. I wish I could tell her that her father killed me.
