Post-pleasing

Throughout my life, my relationship with my mother was a competition for her love. So much of my life was controlled by my insatiable need to please her. I can’t exactly remember when it started, but it was a theme I cannot remember a time without.

When I was very young, I—like a lot of young girls with mothers, I think—wanted to be just like my mother. I wanted to do what she did. I looked up to her. And much to my disappointment, she hated it. She wanted me to act a certain way, to look a certain way, and, at the end of the day, she was trying to craft me into a younger version of herself.

A lot of my young childhood is a mosaic of distasteful memories of my mother. There are a few that stick with me. Sadly, the things I remember about my mother and the experiences I’ve had with her throughout my young life especially, were abusive and neglectful.

When I was about four years old, my mom was very determined to get me to tan. She could tan, my younger brother could tan, but my father and I would only burn.

“You’re just like your father,” she would say. A phrase that has been said to me many times, tied together with disdain.

She proceeded to have me dressed in my swimsuit, lather me in baby oil, and lay on one of those plastic slatted lawn chairs. I have always been extremely sensitive to the sun and the heat. The sun burned so hot on my skin, and it physically hurt to be under it. Just when I was going to complain, my mom would say, “Isn’t this great, Aim? Just me and you bonding? My special girl.” And that kept me burning there longer, just to make her happy.

My mother did this often. Once, when I was six, I had gone into the swimming pool without sunscreen. About thirty minutes into my swim, I remembered I had no sunscreen on because I was feeling how awful the sun was on my skin. “Well, it doesn’t matter at this point. Just keep swimming. You’ll be fine,” my mom said.

Six hours later, after my parents were very drunk and had come to get me after forgetting I was in the pool, I had sun poisoning. My parents instructed me to get out of the pool and change out of my bathing suit. I went into the bathroom to change, but I wasn’t able to take off my swimsuit. My body was covered in blisters, I could hardly move my arms and legs, and I was crying in pain. My parents had gone back out on the patio outside by the pool. I was screaming and crying in pain, yelling out the small kitchen window to my mother that I couldn’t get my bathing suit off.

“Jesus Christ, Aim, what do you mean you can’t get it off? You’re six years old; you can’t do this by yourself?” She said as she angrily butt out her cigarette, slammed her beer can on the wooden table, and huffed heavily as she got up to come check on me.

“I can’t even get ten fucking minutes without some kid needing something.” She ultimately had to cut me out of my bathing suit, all while frustratingly berating me. I had blisters all up and down my back, my butt, my legs, and some pretty bad ones in particular on my shoulders. 

I don’t remember what happened after that, but I do know that I didn’t receive medical attention. I know this because my mother didn’t take us to the doctor or the emergency room. All of the things that should have received medical attention were the direct result of abuse and/or neglect, and if she had taken us to the emergency room, she would get child services called on her. And, heaven forbid, that would be the worst thing to ever happen. “No matter what, don’t tell anyone what happens. What happens in this house, stays in this house! It’s no one’s goddamn business how I raise my kids,” my father would say right before taking a large swig of his rum and Coke. My mother would agree with whatever he said, if she didn’t say it herself. I was conditioned to believe that the worst possible thing that could happen to me would be getting taken away by DYFS (Division of Youth and Family Services).

My mother was a lot mentally sicker than I think anyone ever realized. She did such a great job of showing people all the pretty sides of her, and the uglier sides wore a mask so they could be pretty, too. She was social, she was friendly, and she liked to party. She never wanted to get old. I remember a lot of the conversations we had, where she taught me important lessons about life, were always centered around image—physical and metaphorical. My mother made me sick like her, then played the victim about it (“How could you do this to me? You’re making my life a living hell!”). But that is something that will be revealed throughout this long-winded series of my experience being hurt in all the places I should have been loved.

At the end of it all, I never pleased my mother enough. Although I was the only one who took care of her, both as a child, a young adult, and at the end of her life, I still wasn’t good enough for her. All of the time I spent throughout my life trying to please her was fueled by the irrational thought that if I just did one more thing, if I just got one more good grade or became the best basketball player, if I just did more chores, if I just, if I, if, if if. If only being the child of an alcoholic, narcissistic, abusive and neglectful mother could ever work out like that.