Page 97 of Devanté
“That’s the opposite of what you’ve been doing. I can’t tell you how many times you’ve made me feel like trash. It hurts every time.” I laughed a little and sat at the table with her. “I’m so strong out there in the world. At work, with my friends, with my relationships, but when it comes to you? I’m weak.”
“Why am I just now hearing about how you feel?”
“Because the thought of standing up to you terrifies me.”
“Oh my god, Blake. You don’t have to stand up to me. I’m your mother. We have a bond…or at least I thought we did.”
“No, we don’t. I’m tired of you finding fault with me and everything I do.” My chin trembled as more tears made their way down my face. “Sometimes, I can’t stand to answer the phone when you call because I know you’ll have something to say about my job or how I’m living. I damn near have an anxiety attack when you visit because I know my house won’t be clean enough or big enough. I won’t be pretty enough or thin enough.” I used the heel of my hand to wipe away my salty emotions.
Having that conversation with her was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. Hot stones sank into the pit of my belly when silence washed over us. I was sitting there crying and Mom was staring quietly at the empty, linen-covered tables.
“You hate being around me?” Her voice was small when she finally spoke.
“Yes. I do. I don’t want to hate being around you but if I’m being honest, I do.”
“Am I that bad, Blake?”
“Yes, Ma. Are you listening to me? You take every opportunity to call me fat or tell me I’m not good enough. I’m sick of it.”
“I know how cruel the world can be. When you were little and you were my butterball, I didn’t want anyone to hurt you. The only way I knew how to protect you was to keep you away from anything I thought would tear you down.”
“That’s not what you did. You should have taught me to love myself. Instead, you made me feel like you wished I wasn’t your daughter. All I wanted was for you to be proud of me…it’s never happened.”
Mom crossed her legs and rocked her foot back and forth. It was a true sign that her nerves were on edge. I swallowed the knot in my throat and forced myself to face her even though she was agitated.
“Look, Mom…unless we make repairs in our relationship, we won’t have one. I can’t let myself be emotionally abused. I love myself more than that. I love myself more than I love you.” My voice may have trembled but I spoke my truth.
“Blake, I don’t want to lose you as a daughter. You’re my entire world.” I noticed through my haze of tears that she was crying too. “What can I do to repair things?”
“You can start by apologizing and realizing that you weren’t protecting me. You were hurting me.” She slid her chair closer and pulled me in for a real hug. The first real hug I remember getting from her in a long time. It made the sobs roll through my body like thunder.
“I’m so sorry, baby. I…I know I can be shallow and aloof but I would die if I lost you. I never meant to hurt you and I’m…disgusted with myself hearing how much damage I’ve caused. What else can I do? I’ll do it, whatever it is.”
“It’s going to take a lot of therapy sessions and long conversations where we both do a lot of crying.” I didn’t know how long it would take but if she was at least willing to do the work the I’d be willing to work with her.
I wanted to know what it felt like to have a mother who supported and loved me just the way I was. I wanted our interactions to be easy and genuine. Only time would tell, but I was cautiously optimistic about our future.
We left the venue having a deep conversation about my entire childhood. Mom had to drive because I kept being reduced to tears. Crying over little Blake who wished her mother showed her even an ounce of love. Crying over teenage Blake who had to walk herself through high school and put up a confident façade.
By the time we got back to my parents’ house, I was exhausted and so was Mom. We made headway though and not once did she shoot me down or make me feel inferior. I kept waiting for it to happen but it never did.
Maybe there was hope for her?
…
“What’s wrong?” Devanté asked after our bellies were full with a home-cooked dinner courtesy of my father. We snuck outside while everyone else sat around having drinks and talking about old times. We stretched out in the grass between the picnic table and the rainbow playset.
“I’m tired,” I told him, stifling a yawn.
“You’ve been crying. I can tell.” He touched my chin and pulled me closer.
“That’s putting it lightly. I told my mother how she made me feel. I poured it out and I feel relieved but all that crying and being vulnerable drained me.”
“Where do you want to crash tonight?” He asked, smoothing my hair back and away from my face.
“Your place. No parents. Just us.”
“We can do that. I want to talk to you anyway. Do you mind listening to me while you fall asleep?”
