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Family of Origin
Being a bit player in mother's fantasy film of her life.
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<blockquote data-quote="Scent of Cedar *" data-source="post: 670387" data-attributes="member: 17461"><p>I had believed my mother's escalating nastiness since my father's death had to do with his passing. Or maybe, with her increasing closeness to my sister and to her family. Or with my own heightened awareness of just how weirdly inappropriate so much of what happens in my family of origin is. </p><p></p><p>But maybe, what is happening as my mother lives her life unrestrained by my father, is that "<em>the truth is coming out in dribs and drabs".</em> From my mother's delight at being the only one left (to tell and thus, define the family's story), to her seeming determination to destroy the reputations of the living and especially, the dead; all of it so hurtful and pointless and ugly. For instance, my mother has concocted a murder mystery in which my paternal grandmother (whom my mother has always hated with a sustained intensity) is a feckless, murdering villain. She will place this information in the family geneology.</p><p></p><p>There is such ugliness in the story <em>and there was never a word of any of it breathed before everyone who could challenge my mother had died. </em>There are a thousand other oddnesses, large and small, and all of it seems to have a cutting edge that is razor sharp.</p><p></p><p>Just as you both are describing, where your own mothers are concerned.</p><p></p><p>I am stumbling, again. I just always accommodated my mother. Or, my sister. I am still finding myself confronted with the differences between what was objectively real, and what I believed. </p><p></p><p>Huh.</p><p></p><p>I haven't seen my mother for nearly two years, now. I remember so clearly the almost insectile feel of her watching me. Her eyes were never still; it was like she was forever refocusing. So, there was no steady eye contact, the way there is with most people. Always, that sense of bullying antagonism.</p><p></p><p>As the time has passed since I have had to do with my family of origin, I see the creaking awfulness in the day to day reality of it.</p><p></p><p>What was the matter with my mother.</p><p></p><p>There was something the matter with my mother. That is why everything happened as it did. I am coming into balance around that. But in all of my life, I believed my mother was normal.</p><p></p><p>How strange that seems to me, now.</p><p></p><p>How awful, that we were all affected as we were.</p><p></p><p>I am thinking hard about your comment about your father, pasa.</p><p></p><p>Cedar</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Scent of Cedar *, post: 670387, member: 17461"] I had believed my mother's escalating nastiness since my father's death had to do with his passing. Or maybe, with her increasing closeness to my sister and to her family. Or with my own heightened awareness of just how weirdly inappropriate so much of what happens in my family of origin is. But maybe, what is happening as my mother lives her life unrestrained by my father, is that "[I]the truth is coming out in dribs and drabs".[/I] From my mother's delight at being the only one left (to tell and thus, define the family's story), to her seeming determination to destroy the reputations of the living and especially, the dead; all of it so hurtful and pointless and ugly. For instance, my mother has concocted a murder mystery in which my paternal grandmother (whom my mother has always hated with a sustained intensity) is a feckless, murdering villain. She will place this information in the family geneology. There is such ugliness in the story [I]and there was never a word of any of it breathed before everyone who could challenge my mother had died. [/I]There are a thousand other oddnesses, large and small, and all of it seems to have a cutting edge that is razor sharp. Just as you both are describing, where your own mothers are concerned. I am stumbling, again. I just always accommodated my mother. Or, my sister. I am still finding myself confronted with the differences between what was objectively real, and what I believed. Huh. I haven't seen my mother for nearly two years, now. I remember so clearly the almost insectile feel of her watching me. Her eyes were never still; it was like she was forever refocusing. So, there was no steady eye contact, the way there is with most people. Always, that sense of bullying antagonism. As the time has passed since I have had to do with my family of origin, I see the creaking awfulness in the day to day reality of it. What was the matter with my mother. There was something the matter with my mother. That is why everything happened as it did. I am coming into balance around that. But in all of my life, I believed my mother was normal. How strange that seems to me, now. How awful, that we were all affected as we were. I am thinking hard about your comment about your father, pasa. Cedar [/QUOTE]
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Being a bit player in mother's fantasy film of her life.
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