Mommy

Last week I saw my therapist for the first time since I recovered from COVID. The two weeks I spent lying in bed while my body figured out how to defeat this thing was a very sobering and humbling experience. It also gave me time to really think about the things that don’t get to take hold of me because I’m moving around so much. This meant me bringing a lot to my therapist, starting with my relationship with my mother.

Today is the anniversary of my mother’s passing – three years ago today I sat in my living room with my mother as she left this realm and transitioned to the next one. I was the only one present. I wanted it that way. I always knew I would be called upon to escort my mom to the edge of this realm and wave goodbye as she crossed over. I didn’t think I would be capable of doing it, that I would be strong enough. But I was. As I told my therapist, my family has a lot of rituals around death. This included believing in “The Gift,” as it was called in my immediate family.

Everyone had a little bit of “The Gift” it was said. Everyone had some ability to perceive beyond what exists in front of them. Everyone could foretell the future to some extent if they would just hold still and heed the signs and signals around them, waiting to be deciphered and understood. For nearly everyone, the ability to know without full awareness of the knowing, to know instinctively, without effort, was within reach. In some cases having “The Gift” meant the ability to make connections with dead ancestors and receive messages from them to bring back to those of us still in the realm of the living. In some cases it meant foreseeing the future through dreams or signs or other divinations. While all my relatives were devout Christians who took their beliefs quite seriously, including their beliefs around not interacting with supernatural forces, at the same time, most believed in “The Gift” too.

My mother possessed “The Gift” to some degree. My mother was always supremely comfortable around death, which as a child frightened me a lot. She was always looking for messages from the ancestors, in her day to day life and especially in her dreams. She always expected dead friends and relatives to come to her in her dreams once they passed away. And they always came to her at some point, without fail. She would summon them, and they would find their way to her while she slept. It was a tradition of sorts – a family member would pass away, my mother would carefully collect an obituary from their funeral to put away with her other keepsakes and mementos, and she would remark, “guess they’ll be coming to see me soon.” She prepared for them in a way, rolled out a welcome mat for them in her subconscious mind. I could see my mom preparing food and drink for the new ancestors in my mind’s eye; my mother’s hospitality was unmatched when it came to guests in our home, so there was no reason that would change just because these guests were dead. She was always pleased when she could wake up in the morning and announce that recently deceased aunt or uncle so-and-so or cousin or friend such-and-such had visited her in her dreams. Then she’d detail the events of the dream, happily recounting the time they’d spent together. Then she would retrieve her lottery dream books and decide what numbers to play that day based on who had visited her and what they shared. After consulting my sister (who held similar beliefs as strongly as my mom did), she would carefully write out her list of three and four digit numbers. She’d always play the “death number” (I never quite knew what that meant), and sometimes the ancestor’s birthdate, birth year, house number, or some combination of numbers related to them. For some reason ancestral visitors were always presumed to have winning lottery numbers to share with those of us on this plane, and my mom would prepare a long list of number to be played, in the hope that she would hit for a tidy sum of money that would offer some cushion against whatever financial troubles were befalling us at the time.

“The Gift” was like all the secret things that seemed to encircle my family as a child – no one offered me explanation, comfort or counsel regarding these things. No matter how normal my mom tried to make it seem, the ease with which she communicated with the dead troubled me a great deal. I was very afraid of death, and her lack of fear was confusing and confounding. But no one in my family expressed any shock at my mom’s afterlife social life. Cousins would often call my mom asking if she had heard from this dead loved one or that dead loved one. If some dead loved one took too long, by my mother’s estimation, to visit her, she would become indignant, saying something like, “do you know cousin so-and-so still hasn’t come to see me! It’s been a month now!” Her tone said she was feeling disrespected by the new ancestor, and whenever they did show up, they would have to explain their tardiness to her satisfaction. It frightened me so much in fact, when I became an adult, I told my mother, my sister, my dad, my uncle, and any family member that would listen that I did NOT want any of them visiting me once they passed on, even if they figured out a way to. I wanted no parts of them in that way once they left this place. I had no interest in having “The Gift”. And to their credit, none of my dead relatives have returned to me. Not my dad. Not my uncle – my mom’s brother. Not my sister. Not even my mom, which actually saddened me. But my mom has returned to visit my daughter fairly often in my daughter’s dreams – oddly enough I find myself envying the afterlife relationship my daughter is able to continue to have with my mom. But something in me knows because of my declaration, my mom cannot come to me – at least not yet anyway. So I am at peace with it as best as I can be.

Five generations of my family have died in the house I live in currently, including my grandfather, both my parents, and my uncle. And my great aunt was living in this house when she passed away in the hospital. My mother and I sat with my uncle and father when they passed, as I sat with my mother when she passed, and as I am sure my children will sit with me when the time comes. Shortly before the person passes, the ritual I call the “death march” takes place, where family come to visit the person that is expected to be the dearly departed soon. I remembered my mother’s death march clearly – several family members came to see her the weekend before she passed. She was not pleased with their visit, because she felt they did not actually spend much time with her. Her hospital bed was in the living room, and they spent most of their time in the dining room with each other. My mother expressed to me her displeasure at that, saying, “I don’t even know what they came down here for. They didn’t come to see me.” I didn’t share her sentiments with the visiting family at the time – contrary to how my mother felt, they really were doing their best in their own way. The family members left that Sunday, and my mom died two days later. I organized a beautiful, expensive funeral for my mother that I know would have pleased her.

When circumstances in my life forced me to move back into this house a couple of years ago, a few short months after my mom died, I became very much aware of how much death had taken place in the house. I had lived somewhere else for a long time, and the difference in my former home and the house my mom left to me was night and day in terms of how they felt to me. I talked to my therapist about this, about how I felt as if so many deaths had happened in the house my mom left me, there wasn’t a lot of space left for the living souls in the house. I explained that I was by no means fearful or felt my house was haunted. I did not feel and do not feel like that anyone who has passed would ever hurt or harm me or mine. But I am moving my life in a different direction, working to break some generational curses, and learning to give different context to the positive and beautiful things I learned from my mom. But this will cause me to live a kind of life that the ancestors who died in this house would not have understood when they were alive. They would not, and often did not, approve of me in life, and I don’t think death would change that. What I want for myself, for my life, for those who are close to me is not what my ancestors envisioned. I know this. Most of my conversations with my ancestors these days is me explaining to them that I need them to intercede on my behalf in a good way while trusting my judgement. I plan to live a life that would have them nervous for me when they were alive, fearful for my safety and security and my reputation as a fine, upstanding woman.

Both my parents, I realize now, dealt with tremendous, debilitating anxiety when they were alive, and seeing the way I wanted to move through the world frightened them. I recognize that a lot of that anxiety came from the times in which they lived. They grew up during a period when being Black was especially perilous. Lynching were still regular occurrences. Deference to White people was how you stayed alive, literally. For Black people, life had to be lived in very clearly constructed parameters, and moving outside those parameters, whether accidentally or intentionally, could cost you your life. And if you were already prone to anxiety anyway, I get how all these things could really damage your psyche over time. But at the same time, as much as Black folks wanted freedom from these things, what some really wanted in some cases was a turn at being the oppressor instead of the oppressed. It’s funny sometimes how elder generations want younger ones to have freedom, but they want to be in control of how younger generations experience that freedom, to control what they do with that freedom. After all, freedom should mean free to reject everything elders consider significant, or important, or tradition. It funny sometimes how freedom for the elders means “don’t criticize me or in any way examine my choices in relation to you, even from the most loving, non-judgmental place possible.” Freedom does not permit you to interpret the events in your life in a way that allows you to understand and make better choices.

This was not a freedom my parents wanted me to have. As confident as I was in my path when I was young, my confidence troubled them. So they did things to make me unsure about the path I wanted to take. In a lot of ways, they dissuaded me from what I envisioned for myself. There was no encouragement for me to spread my wings, to leave the nest, to move out on my own, to find my own life. My mother often would express how unhappy she would be if I left home, that I never ever had to go, that she wanted me to stay with the family (my family to her mind was always her, my dad and me. There was never any mention of anyone else.) There was fear wrapped up in everything I wanted to be, everything I wanted to experience. From the colleges I wanted to attend to the men I dated, to the projects I wanted to try, my parents were always there, pointing out the pitfalls to me, reminding me of my responsibility to them. So I became fearful and spent years not choosing anything. For most of my life I have felt incompetent in my ability to move through my own life and to make good decisions in it. So I have never flown as far away from the nest as I should have – and my talents are considerable, so I certainly could have flown far and well by now. Flight, departure, even with the goal of returning bigger and greater and with more resources to be of even greater service, was always presented to me as a dangerous thing to do. Because I truly do long to fly, I have taken occasional short bursts of flight, rebelling against my parents, and I would immediately start to climb and soar and take to the heavens with shocking speed. These bursts of flight made me see myself differently for a few beautiful moments. I was successful and talented and smart and gifted and capable of absolute greatness. I could see others admiring me, being pleased with my fabulousness, wanting to share in that with me. But the minute I began to gain significant altitude in my life, altitude that pulled me farther and farther away from my family, I would look down, look back, look at my mom calling to me, telling me not to fly too high, or too fast, or too far from her, and inevitably I would return to earth, where I was safe. But where I was always ultimately unhappy and often alone, in service to my family and trying to find ways to live my life, be my authentic self, that did not disturb the family dynamic that was so important to my mom.

As I talk to my therapist about my experiences now, I see clearly now how anxiety effected how my parents, especially my mother, parented me. I think back to all the ways they discouraged me, not because they did not want me to be successful, but because they didn’t understand the path I was taking, and they feared the path I was taking was unsafe. So much of the advice my mother gave me was rooted in fear, rooted in what would be taken from me or what I would lose if I took a particular path. So much of what I was told about choices was about what I might lose if I did a thing I wanted to do, needed to do. The possibility that I might gain things that were equally valuable, or even more valuable, was never presented to me. The possibility that I might free myself from chains I didn’t want to be bound by was never discussed. It was always, “don’t do this, because you might lose that.” But what if the possible loss of one thing might lead me to so many other greater, even more wonderful things? What if the loss of something ended up not being a loss at all, because it ultimately put me in a better place emotionally, mentally or spiritually? But in the name of holding onto certain things that seemed secure, I never allowed myself to consider that it just might be possible to create even better situations and circumstances for myself by releasing the fear of losing what I had. Or what I thought I had. So much of the advice parents give their children comes from fear of loss, not from what is really in the best interested of their children, and as I learn these lesson from talking to my therapist, I am thinking long and hard about what I am afraid of, and making sure I don’t pass on my fears to my children.

I also think about the things I have that I am thankful for – a home that my mother loved me enough to leave to me, gainful employment that is personally and professionally satisfying that pays a fairly comfortable wage, friends who love me, children who are figuring out who they want to be in the world, outlets for my creativity, and opportunities to increase my territory as it relates to my creativity. I think about my talent and my creativity a lot, and about what I want to do with those things now. I think about what I don’t have that I wish I had – much more money, another home or two, more personal and professional power and influence, more romantic love, more sexual love, a significant other, a person I can freely and openly love and be in love with, who feels the same way about me. I have heard I am difficult to love, which is not true, but I do know with me either love exists in free flowing unconditional abundance or not at all. Those very clear boundaries can feel harsh at times for men who like the idea of having access to the pieces of me they enjoy or are comfortable with, while turning down the shit they don’t like or that challenges them. I am no one’s buffet. I find myself more willing to take chances in things, even things that break the rules, but I still have the supreme fear of failing in my head that I am working like hell to extract. I am coming to terms with me as an unconventional person, a person I think my parents would have genuinely liked had they not been so afraid of what freedom looked like for me.

As I think about my mother today, I am glad I had her for as long as I did. I am glad I am coming to understand her more and more as I grow, both her faults and her great qualities. No matter what else I observe about my mom, I know she loved me, and the way in which she poured out love is something I have taken into my heart, and is the way I pour into those I care for. I am learning as much from her now as I did when she was here on this realm with me, which I appreciate. Oddly enough, even with all the fears my mother had for me, and the degree to which I let them set the course for my life, I still ended up with the very unconventional life I know I was meant to have. My life was meant to look different. And it does. My mother still caused me to end up being who I was meant to be in many ways, although not in every way – that remaining work is for me to do at this point.

I didn’t adhere to any of the traditional things my mother pointed me towards. I didn’t marry, though I was raised and expected to marry. Especially once I got pregnant. But I knew those marriages would not work for me. So I did not enter into them. I left those relationships when they became toxic. But I am as domestic as any modern woman can be. I excel in those traditional domestic roles, and fully expect to cook, clean, do laundry when I am involved with a man.  I naturally fall into service mode with men I am with, and I don’t even fight it anymore. I just make sure he’s worth the effort. As much as I desire love and romance and sex and domestic stability, I am in no rush to find a husband, even now. What I am primarily looking for is consensual intense pleasure and intellectual stimulation at this moment. I want to be with someone who wants to fly with me, no matter what the configuration of our being together looks like. I enjoy being admired, and appreciated by a man a great deal. I love having attention paid to me. I love being the center of a man’s world, at least for a few hours at a time. I am a very loving and caring person. I enjoy sex tremendously and appreciate nothing more than a person with whom I can comfortably exist as an intensely happy sexual being (with the hope he would feel the same about me) – honestly I would take this person over a husband any day because I’m not sure I’ve ever had that – someone with whom my sexual intensity didn’t become an issue. I raised my children as a single mother in rather unconventional ways as well, and as a result I live in a house with creatives who swear constantly and excel at writing and storytelling. I love them dearly, though I spend long periods of time not liking them and being aware of how much they get on my nerves. I spent significant years of my life making money as a performing artist and a freelance writer. I’ve homeschooled my children. I have spent more of my life outside the traditional nine-to-five work world than I have in it, and I still have made money fairly easily. I have organized a life where I am still in control of how I spend my time more often than not. My schedule is still, in large measure, mine to manage and control. My workplace is an amazingly supportive one that allows me to control my schedule the way I do. It also allows me to afford therapy.

Love you mommy!