One of the morphing realities of my sparse colligate homecomings:
Whereas the Fox mama used to Trot solo, tail wrapped round finger so tight under white stripe, holding all of our psyches in her manipulative, loving paw;
Now, Tango swallows two psyches, the abuser and the abdicator used.
Setting: Around 9:00 pm, walk past mom on the way to the kitchen to identify a snack. Unsure of kitchen inventory just having come home for spring break. I ask of my mother, sitting in the adjacent room: ‘ im lookin for a snack, what are you eating for an afternoon snack these days?’
MOther: mostly bad things. oh god. Like, um, Fig Newtons.
Me (sarcastic tone): oh yeah, those big bad Fig Newtons.
Mother: hehe, well if you have to many!
–> yesterday she had two at a family birthday and publicly announced it was too many she she needed weight watchers. i just looked down at the cake in front of me, about to bite, but deterred by my mothers voice.<–
Mom: Also, i guess al ihave for snack at this time are carbohydrates Ugh, god.
Me: mom, no need to help more, forget I asked. What if i want a fig newton. Now do i have a choice to eat it without guilt and shame?
Mom: No em, you could have it.
Me: how come i can eat a fig newton without shame and you can’t?
Mom: Because we’re two different categories.
In my mother’s reality of people categories, I am too frieghentened to fathom the detail, the mass deception the revered exceptions and the (not so punny) weight of living a dual existence. Was she fully there as I blew out my birthday candles, or was she usually calorie counting to see if the risk of partaking had been deserved? Am I abstracting a hyperbole? Is the reality closer to normal? WHAT and WHO the fuck are normal? Because when i look inside myself for directions all i see is my Eating Disorder, waiting. She’s standing, I’m sitting, as we pass through my photographic past, her point well made that she predates any picture I have memory of without her in my lap. Moving on to my mom, I look to her for finding what the fuck is normal and I get nothing back but looks laced with love but hooked with hate, and I don’t think I can understand until when/if I have kids on my own.But it’s that very same look she wore on the day in 10th grade, I was 15, I asked her to help me cope living without my eating disorder active by not making negative remarks about what she, or any other body, ate, or how their bodies size up, in my presence whatsoever because it was triggering. Her response has scared me: first, she shot those life zapping eyes, and I wanted to kill myself ( I tried later, i failed, so la vi); and she said,” your eating disorder is your problem. stop trying to put it on me. Take responsibility for yourself. Own up to it, claim responsibility, and fix yourself already.” At that time, the best device I had for calming down was to lie in bed and imagine strange and sadistic ways of violently killing my parents or myself, and when I did first they would be crying realizing what they had lost and when they died first i would be standing about them bloody dagger still swinging in my palm. Neednless to say, neither of us speak the same language as normal and I just fucking want to find NORMAL.