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Family of Origin
When your past as a child, follows you as a mother, as a person.
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<blockquote data-quote="Copabanana" data-source="post: 669862" data-attributes="member: 18958"><p>You know, it is a coincidence, because just today I was thinking about all of this. Actually, later, when I was a teen. I was thinking: You know I was a D C. The only difference is that nobody cared.</p><p></p><p>I remember: Banging my head against the wall, frustrated with my mother's irrationality. I remember being beaten by my step-father for insolence. I remember shutting the flatware drawer on my sister's hand when she lied or tried to bait or insult me. Even then, she was a little jerk.</p><p></p><p>I flunked out of college the first semester. Although the college was 20 minutes away I was sent to a dorm because nobody could stand me.</p><p></p><p>When I flunked out and came home, my mother made me leave the house at 8 am to look for work and I went to the library. Etcetera.</p><p></p><p>Everybody in the house was mildly nuts. Except me. That was how I felt, and still do. Except that they had the power and I had none.</p><p>Until my step-father came, that was the case.</p><p></p><p>My memory is that before then, I felt the responsible one. Not just for my sister or the house, but for my mother, as well.</p><p></p><p>Actually, that is borne out by what happened after my mother divorced my step-father after 19 years.</p><p></p><p>Again, my mother made me responsible for her emotionally. I remember a co-worker/friend at that time who would hear me at work speaking to her commented: Your mother sucks the life out of you. You carry her emotionally. I remember this because of how jarring it was. I was not ready to hear this at this time. Or still. Remember the story, Cedar, how my 3rd grade teacher called my mother to school. For 55 years or more the story was that Mr. Wilson told my mother: "COPA can be anything in the world she wants to be. Even President of the United States. She is smart enough to be President."</p><p></p><p>And in the year before my mother died, when she could see me with other people, how confident I had become and comfortable with myself and others, the real story came out: ....if COPA had confidence, she is smart enough to be anything in the world, even President.</p><p></p><p>But little COPA had not confidence or support. She served to serve. And to reflect well, when she could.</p><p>In the same years that at least in my own mind I was carrying the family, my mother would rage at me. In addition to slaps across the face there were hysterical beatings with wire and wooden hangers. I would run.</p><p>I remember I would cry at school. That must be why the teacher called my Mother.</p><p></p><p>When one day I arrived to school, soaking wet from rain, I was so touched that they allowed me to sit in the office by the heater to try out. My mother had called the school when she became aware that I had walked to school in a deluge.</p><p>"]Yes. There is no other way to see it. No other way to explain all of her actions towards me. Her attitudes were sanctioned by a system. While she is responsible, now. She learned at her mother's knee.</p><p>When my son was little and always, really, I fought viciously for him. Like a tiger, I fought. The thing is I love my Mother. You cannot imagine how much. I have her ashes left. That is all. If I have to choose between us, still, I choose her.</p><p></p><p>I think that is why I left all those years ago. I could leave, but I could not, would not fight her.</p><p></p><p>It will take time for me to bear it. To feel that I can choose myself.</p><p></p><p>I am the best of her, really. I am very, very like her. I see that, now.</p><p></p><p>I believe my sister took the worst of her. Self-serving and selfish. Justifying the most base of motives. My mother's materialism.</p><p></p><p>When I am out and about, I sometimes feel my mother is with me. My warmth. How I chat up the sales clerks. Today at Sears 3 different women, I had beaming with pleasure. How beautiful you are. To another: Your makeup. How do you do that? So perfectly professional but at the same, time glamorous. Oh, my, you are so nice to me. Please call the manager. I need to tell her.</p><p></p><p>To the manager: Everybody is always so kind to me here. Every time I come in here. Everybody. Is that you, your influence? You are over the clothing and accessories? Never in my life have I seen such a well-trained and gracious staff. And you can see how old I am. We need to call Eddie Lambert right now. (The CEO of Sears and controlling stock holder.) Then we joke about Eddie Lambert--who actually is driving Sears into the ground.</p><p></p><p>I am so grateful to you. To be treated with such kindness and courtesy by Everybody. I do not minimize this. Thank you.</p><p></p><p>Of course she thinks it is over the top. But so happy, she is. And me too.</p><p></p><p>That is my Mother (actually times about 5. I really milk it, because I was having such a good time, and they are too.)</p><p></p><p>You see, I am grateful to my Mother. She gave me very little, but I got very much.</p><p></p><p>It will take time. Thank you, Cedar, I will miss you.</p><p></p><p>I will read this post over and over again, while you are gone.</p><p></p><p>COPA</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Copabanana, post: 669862, member: 18958"] You know, it is a coincidence, because just today I was thinking about all of this. Actually, later, when I was a teen. I was thinking: You know I was a D C. The only difference is that nobody cared. I remember: Banging my head against the wall, frustrated with my mother's irrationality. I remember being beaten by my step-father for insolence. I remember shutting the flatware drawer on my sister's hand when she lied or tried to bait or insult me. Even then, she was a little jerk. I flunked out of college the first semester. Although the college was 20 minutes away I was sent to a dorm because nobody could stand me. When I flunked out and came home, my mother made me leave the house at 8 am to look for work and I went to the library. Etcetera. Everybody in the house was mildly nuts. Except me. That was how I felt, and still do. Except that they had the power and I had none. Until my step-father came, that was the case. My memory is that before then, I felt the responsible one. Not just for my sister or the house, but for my mother, as well. Actually, that is borne out by what happened after my mother divorced my step-father after 19 years. Again, my mother made me responsible for her emotionally. I remember a co-worker/friend at that time who would hear me at work speaking to her commented: Your mother sucks the life out of you. You carry her emotionally. I remember this because of how jarring it was. I was not ready to hear this at this time. Or still. Remember the story, Cedar, how my 3rd grade teacher called my mother to school. For 55 years or more the story was that Mr. Wilson told my mother: "COPA can be anything in the world she wants to be. Even President of the United States. She is smart enough to be President." And in the year before my mother died, when she could see me with other people, how confident I had become and comfortable with myself and others, the real story came out: ....if COPA had confidence, she is smart enough to be anything in the world, even President. But little COPA had not confidence or support. She served to serve. And to reflect well, when she could. In the same years that at least in my own mind I was carrying the family, my mother would rage at me. In addition to slaps across the face there were hysterical beatings with wire and wooden hangers. I would run. I remember I would cry at school. That must be why the teacher called my Mother. When one day I arrived to school, soaking wet from rain, I was so touched that they allowed me to sit in the office by the heater to try out. My mother had called the school when she became aware that I had walked to school in a deluge. "]Yes. There is no other way to see it. No other way to explain all of her actions towards me. Her attitudes were sanctioned by a system. While she is responsible, now. She learned at her mother's knee. When my son was little and always, really, I fought viciously for him. Like a tiger, I fought. The thing is I love my Mother. You cannot imagine how much. I have her ashes left. That is all. If I have to choose between us, still, I choose her. I think that is why I left all those years ago. I could leave, but I could not, would not fight her. It will take time for me to bear it. To feel that I can choose myself. I am the best of her, really. I am very, very like her. I see that, now. I believe my sister took the worst of her. Self-serving and selfish. Justifying the most base of motives. My mother's materialism. When I am out and about, I sometimes feel my mother is with me. My warmth. How I chat up the sales clerks. Today at Sears 3 different women, I had beaming with pleasure. How beautiful you are. To another: Your makeup. How do you do that? So perfectly professional but at the same, time glamorous. Oh, my, you are so nice to me. Please call the manager. I need to tell her. To the manager: Everybody is always so kind to me here. Every time I come in here. Everybody. Is that you, your influence? You are over the clothing and accessories? Never in my life have I seen such a well-trained and gracious staff. And you can see how old I am. We need to call Eddie Lambert right now. (The CEO of Sears and controlling stock holder.) Then we joke about Eddie Lambert--who actually is driving Sears into the ground. I am so grateful to you. To be treated with such kindness and courtesy by Everybody. I do not minimize this. Thank you. Of course she thinks it is over the top. But so happy, she is. And me too. That is my Mother (actually times about 5. I really milk it, because I was having such a good time, and they are too.) You see, I am grateful to my Mother. She gave me very little, but I got very much. It will take time. Thank you, Cedar, I will miss you. I will read this post over and over again, while you are gone. COPA [/QUOTE]
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When your past as a child, follows you as a mother, as a person.
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