Janessa Alexis

Saying that I hate my mother seems a bit too simple. I don’t think I hate her. I don’t ever think I could. Not when I’d spent so much of my life reaching out to her, her continued absences an acute pain that nested just north of my navel, tucked beneath layers of skin so that no one would notice, no one else could hurt me. No. My problem is that I haven’t gotten over myself. The issue lies with me. Though I’m an adult now, I hold onto the feelings of a child. Carrying within myself an image of a female figure who was there for her daughter’s first period, who taught her the frivolity of a man’s approval, who nurtured within her a feminine energy and grace.

And that figure just wasn’t my mother.

My mother instead conducted her life during my childhood with an emphasis on herself, as a woman. One who had undertaken the role of “mother” too early in her twenties, she herself still something of a child. One who tried to sustain a marriage with a man a decade older than her, a man who’d already lived through life and knew he was ready to settle, when she herself couldn’t have imaged half of the experiences he’d enjoyed. One who not only bore the burden of showing up for herself in a foreign country, but also of carrying the expectations of the family she’d left behind for this new life.

I close my eyes against this knowledge sometimes. And I think of her. I picture a young woman stretching her arms above her head, the sun shining through the living room window, letting her fingers graze the edges of its warmth as she breathes deeply, its brilliance blinding, even from such a distance. She exhales quietly, lowering her face, wiping her eyes on her sleeves, hunching forward to pinch, egg wash, roll, children’s laughter echoing through the apartment, banging hollow against the confines of her heart. I imagine her feeling trapped, the way I sometimes find myself feeling trapped.

How awful. What a miserable life. I yearn to comfort that image, one stuck living a life she wasn’t ready for, maybe one she never would’ve even wished for herself, but that she has to live through anyway. And where I’d open my heart to anyone else, to comfort them in their mistakes, I just can’t seem to do that for my mom. The twelve-year-old, who used to cry herself to sleep because she’d reach out for someone in the empty spot beside her, tells me not to.

–

I grew up with a mysterious mother. Someone who led a life outside of what others expected of her. She was a surprise. A delight. She’d tickle us with her tales, regal us with stories of her accomplishments. Her life one of fiction. Vacationed with a boyfriend to meet her ailing mother. Drove semi-trucks for sport. Worked as a nursing home aid. Spent the summer in Germany with another boyfriend. Got a human resources degree as a part-time adult student. Auctioned used cars to poor suckers. Sold lumpias wholesale as a side business. Moved to the coast to escape the winters of the prairies with a fiancé.

She was brilliant. Untouchable. A butterfly, a virtual chameleon. Trying out different lives the way most people try on new clothes, figuring out which one suited her best, showing off her best features, presenting the best version of herself to others, shedding that which did not suit her anymore.

She was daring and bold and everything I’ve ever admired in other women my age.

These nuggets of her life came at a cost though. I’d only learn more about her when she chose to share her tall tales with me, coming home to us only when her most recent venture had failed. I’m glad it’s finally over with Jeremy. It was exhausting bringing him home, and I’m getting tired of driving those buses with him. I can’t be around old people either. Ha ha, who, oh, Johann? I mean, he wasn’t too much older, and those few months were nice while they lasted. But those three years I wasted on a degree were too much. No, I need people, young people, corporate, cars. With a gig on the side, dear, never all the eggs in the same basket. But not here, not for much longer. I can’t stand the cold in this city, and Greg prefers the ocean anyway.

I was sacrificing my mom to a life without me. In order to receive the gift of her stories, I’d have to relinquish her role as a maternal figure. I didn’t realize that was the trade-off. If I’d known, I don’t know that I would’ve agreed. I could always read stories in books. But I could never again reclaim time lost with a parent.

I think this is what makes me most angry about my mother. When I speak of her adventures to others, they coo and crow and marvel at her drive, her achievements. What goes unspoken is that her drive drove her away from her children, her achievements earned without us by her side. We should’ve been there. We should’ve.

–

I am my mother’s daughter. Without fault. Despite distance, separation, and ignorance, I’ve turned into the woman I’ve ached for the most. She’s directly influenced the person I’ve become.

While I like to think of myself as separate from her, better, not capable of doing the awful things I’ve perceived her to have done, when I look at the facts of my life, I find eerie similarities. I’ve left my family behind and moved abroad twice under the pretext of figuring out my life. I’ve loved and abandoned relationships when it best suited me. I’ve changed careers multiple times in the past handful of years, out of boredom, out of a need for discovery. And I’ve only come home when I’ve burned the adventure out of my system, looking for a warm place to recover, but inevitably being drawn away again to take flight.

All of these things I’ve admired in myself are the things I’ve claimed to loathe about her. My independence and self-autonomy. My heart that unerringly guides me towards what I perceive to be the right answer, the right people, restless in its pursuit of greatness. This gut that I trust, these instincts that I follow. I think I’m doing right by myself. But maybe I don’t heed others. I know that I love my people deeply, fiercely, unwaveringly. Yet I also know that I could turn away without a backwards glance, thinking, taking for granted, that the random appearances I’ll make will make up for the gaps that grow wider in their memories of where I should be.

Motherhood rests heavy on my mind these days. I dread it. I’d be a horrible parent. I’d raise such a complicated daughter. One who wants to admire her mother because that’s what other kids do, but ultimately finds her undeserving of the affection. I couldn’t live with it. To borne something of myself, in my image, only to have her grow weary of me, to regard me with disdain, to only openly speak about me on the internet.

No. God, I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t.

I want my daughter to carry within herself an image of a woman who was there for her daughter’s first period, who sat her down to teach her about the frivolity of a man’s approval, who did actually nurture within her a strong sense of feminine energy and grace. I want her to look at me with admiration, and only admiration. Listen to my stories, and smile because she lived through them with me. To reach for me in her bed, and find me sleeping soundly beside her.

More than this, I hope she loves her grandmother. I do. I hope she understands the role that woman played in my life, and empathize with her mistakes. I want her to look at her grandmother and love her openly, fiercely, giving her all of the love I couldn’t, that I deprived her of even when I knew better.

I want her generation of woman to be better than those that came before.