Morphing into Mama

I'm Scared of What I Don't Know

There are some things in life that truly baffle me. 

The cost of housing in California (does it really need to be so high?).  Donald Trump's hair (is some of it sprayed on or what?).  Soft porn movies with far too much dialogue and plot on late night cable (what is the point?).  Angelina Jolie's lips (real? fake?).  The fact that I had to sign more paperwork and show more proof of my ability to own a car before I could even drive it off the lot than I did to take home my newborn babies from the hospital (you want me to take home this baby and not only keep it alive but raise it?  properly? do you people even know who I am?) 

But the thing that has me most baffled at the moment is my internship. 

Next week, after only one year of graduate school, I'm going to start providing therapy to elementary and high school students.  By myself.  Well, I'll be supervised -- but not while I'm with the students.  Supervision occurs after I've met with the students, back at the agency with which I'm interning.  When I'm at the schools, I'll be there by myself.  I will be the only therapist -- other than the school psychologist, who really only does testing and assessments for intelligence and learning disabilities and the like -- providing counseling for emotional and behavioral problems. 

Frankly, I think this is a little weird.  I mean, shouldn't someone be there with me to ensure I don't fuck up some kid for life?  Okay, I'm exaggerating a bit, I suppose, but seriously.  Isn't it just a wee bit strange to release us into the wild without us first practicing on real people under the keen eye of a seasoned therapist? 

What's interesting is that my cohort appears to be fine with this.  They're fine with providing education to parents about proper ways to discipline their children.  With helping teachers manage disruptive kids (our clients) in the classroom.  They act as if they're more than capable of helping kids gain better impulse control and providing emotional support through divorce, death, pregnancy, drugs, relational aggression, suicidal ideation, etc., etc., etc. 

I wish I had their confidence. 

Or is it naivete?

My cohort, while very bright, is very young, ranging in age from 23-25 years-old.  Only one is married, and none of them have children.  Honestly, I don't think they know what they don't know. 

All I can think about is what I don't know. 

When I was in high school, I sought the help of a therapist.  Looking back, she must have been an intern.  I was depressed.  Extremely depressed.  After seven years of listening to my step-mother tell me I was a worthless piece of shit who should be institutionalized for mental retardation, I actually started to believe her.  All I wanted to do was sleep, and I'd feel angry and sad every time I awoke.  Sleep was the only thing that gave me a reprieve from her screams, which continued to play in my mind like a tape without a stop button when she wasn't around.  It was the only thing that protected me from her kicks to my chest, or her stabs to my skin with her nails. 

When I spoke about wanting to die to the therapist, she interrupted and said, "Laura, if you talk about suicide anymore, I'm going to have to hospitalize you."  I never spoke of it again.  In fact, I never went back to see her again. 

What this young, untrained therapist didn't know was how alone I felt.  She didn't know I didn't have close friends because I'd isolated myself from my classmates.  She didn't know that even though Husband and I were sweethearts, I didn't dare tell him about my sadness.  We went to different high schools, so I rarely got to see him, and when I did, I only wanted it to be happy.  But truthfully, I didn't want anyone to know my feelings.  I didn't want them to judge me. 

She also didn't know that not only did I have a plan to end my life, but I also had the means.  Every night, before going to sleep, I'd hold the large bottle of pills in my hand.  I'd lay them out on my headboard one by one.  I'd count them to ensure they totaled 300.  A glass of water stood on my nightstand. 

Thankfully, every night, I'd put them all away, and tuck the bottle back behind my bed.  Then I'd close my eyes and dream of a different life.  The life I have now. 

The depression stayed with me for the next seven years.  But instead of pills, I thought about driving my car into the side of a mountain.  I took unnecessary risks in most everything I did, hoping I would die as a result. 

What that therapist didn't know is that her words would stay with me for a very, very long time.  They reaffirmed my conviction to never speak of my ache for death to anyone.  Maybe if I had spoken to someone, I wouldn't have felt so shitty for so long.

I hope to God I do a much better job than she did.

A Serious Warning For All Parents

If your child likes to eat grapes, please cut them into pieces!

I received an email from my neighborhood's playgroup yesterday.  A 4 1/2 year-old boy in the class across from one of the children in playgroup died last week from choking on a grape.  He was at school eating it when a child sitting next to him made him laugh.  The laugh caused him to suck in the grape and it became lodged in his throat.  The paramedics came, but he died on the way to the hospital. 

I don't know if the teacher performed the Heimlich maneuver or not -- a maneuver we all should know how to do.

Our hearts go out to the little boy's family.

I Am My Mother's Daughter

[This post is part of a Mother’s Day Bloggect organized by Kara over at Cape Buffalo.  Go here to read other posts in this series.]

Growing up, I was “Daddy’s Little Girl.”  Everywhere we went, people remarked how we looked so much alike.  We have the same dark almond eyes.  Both of our noses are slightly crooked.  Our wrists are long and slim.  We have the same facial sneer.  And we both suffer from chronically chapped lips. 

I loved it that people thought we were so similar.  My father is extremely intelligent, so I always looked up to him and wanted so much to emulate him.  He was also very affectionate with me.  Something my mother wasn’t.  When I was distressed, it was often my father who would provide me with a hug and hand me my Bear.

Though my relationship with my father made my mother jealous, she also unwittingly reinforced it.  Rather than accept my advances of affection, she would push me away and say, “You’re your father’s child.  Joey is my child.”

Joey was my half-brother who was five years my junior.  I remember him as a happy little boy with a golden mane.  When my mother came home one afternoon and explained that Joey had died, I felt so sad, as any seven year-old would.  I was sad because I missed Joey.  But I was even more sad for my mother.  Her child was now gone.  For the next year, I watched my mother suffer during her mourning.  I tried to comfort her, but I didn’t know how.  I felt so disconnected from her though I had lived with her since her divorce from my father.

A year later, I went back to live with my father.  This was most exciting, especially since I also had a new step-mother.  Now was my opportunity to have a real mother.  A mother I felt connected to.  Step-mother seemed excited about having a child as well.  In fact, she didn’t want me to call her by her name.  Instead, she asked me to call her “Mutti,” which means “mommy” in German.  Unfortunately, after a couple of years, things weren’t going so well between me and Mutti.  In fact, memories of my mother chasing me from one end of the trailer to the other while waving a wooden spoon she intended to use for spanking so her hand wouldn’t get stung actually seemed warm and loving compared to the hell Mutti was giving me.  However, the prospect of going back to live my mother in her trailer was not an option since Mutti and my father wouldn’t even let me visit that “white-trash loser.” 

Fortunately, my mother eventually moved out of her trailer into a modular home.  Given she was obviously moving up in the world, my father and Mutti decided it was safe for me to visit her.  This visit turned into a permanent stay.

Now, I bet you think this is where the story gets better, our relationship improves, and we all live happily ever after. 

Not quite.

Mother and I had a tumultuous relationship for the next couple of years.  We just didn’t know how to connect.  She tried being my friend.  I tried being hers.  But then she’d go back to acting like my mother, and I’d get busted for acting like her friend.  Talk about your learned helplessness.  Sheesh. 

When I moved out at 18, our relationship went from tumultuous to nonexistent for nearly five years. 

“Now,” you’re thinking, “this where the reconciliation is, and they all live happily ever after!” 

Not even close.

But I’ll spare you the boring details, which really only include lots of screaming with no one listening, and cut to the chase.  My mother and I didn’t start to reconcile until I moved back to

California

2 years ago.  I can’t really say what triggered it.  Perhaps it was having children of my own.  I didn’t want them to be without a grandmother.  But something else happened.  My mother and I, for the first time ever, started listening to each other.  So after 33 years of knowing her, I feel as if I’m just getting to know her.  This process has not been without its bumps, but it’s been good.  And it keeps getting better. 

Now, did you notice how my father kind of dropped out of the picture?  Yeah, well, there are reasons for that -- too many to list. 

So while it’s true I still look like my father, each day I work hard to be nothing like him.  In fact, I don’t see his face when I look in the mirror anymore.  Instead, I hear my mother when I laugh loudly (which is, actually, how I always laugh).  I see my mother when I roll around on the floor, playing with the kids.  And I’m reminded of her when I feel a giddy kind of appreciation for something. 

I may not look too much like her, but I am so grateful I have her spirit.