Wisps Posts Tagged as 'Mother'
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It taught me that war has many voices. 15-Oct-2018
If I needed more information than a program could provide, I read the book. 14-Oct-2018
My cartoons were my respite from reverberations associated with abuse. Still are. 11-Oct-2018
It helped push me out my bubble. 11-Oct-2018
I learned how to tie a necktie for my first job interview by watching JR Ewing tie his own...and I got the job. 10-Oct-2018
I learned I wasn't alone. 10-Oct-2018
I found its world kind. 10-Oct-2018
I travelled. 10-Oct-2018
It informed me that what my mother was doing to us wasn't a punishment but abuse. Thank you Phil (Donahue.) 09-Oct-2018
It's where I met a good mother. Thanks Mrs. Brady. 09-Oct-2018
TV was my mother. 08-Oct-2018
I watch horror movies anticipating that they will scare me more than my mother did. No such luck. 07-Oct-2018
When I ventured away from the "family bubble" I started to encounter racism. The only contact with white people I had growing up were teachers that treated me favorably of whom many I considered mentors.
I would complain to my mother about this treatment and she proclaimed I was imagining things.
"How dare I think so highly of myself to presume people were talking or acting improperly behind my back or to my face."
She chalked it up to a mental disorder and an insecurity of mine. Even when I was voraciously humiliated I counted to ten and took deep breaths so my presumptions wouldn't get the better of me. I would explode, deflate and repeat the process always convinced it was in my head.
When my sister and family were being racially tormented my mother accepted it as truth. I asked her why she believed my sister's racial discrepancies and not mine and she stated it was because my brother-in-law was a black American. I was hurt that my privileged white mother couldn't accept that the world mostly judges in terms of black and white and that being a Puerto Rican wasn't going to change that perception.
It is a disservice to brown people born of two colors to be denied a truth because one parent lives in privilege. 01-Aug-2018
When my favorite aunt announced to the family that my father had raped her throughout her early teens, I believed her and granted her support. My sister discarded it as the ravings of an alcoholic and my mother sought to investigate the situation.
Mother asked me...
"why would my aunt continue to hang out with us as a family if she was so perturbed by the incident? She must've enjoyed it then."
"I don't know," I told her. "It's her experience, ask her."
My mother never asked and remained unmoved by the discussion as my aunt's confession became a family joke. It hurts that my amazons couldn't unite with her. 23-Apr-2018
The reason I'm against fan celebration of motherhood is because mine used it as a cover to enact abuse to her children. She figured out that people are easily deceived into thinking the best of someone if it's presented in a clean and impressive package. My sister described it as military training. When we visited mother's family or friends we weren't allowed to move from wherever we sat not even to play with other kids because mother's children were not unruly. If anyone asked us if we would like something to eat or drink the answer was immediately no unless mother signaled otherwise because she didn't want anyone to think she was starving us. We were cleansed and groomed spotlessly and we would remain that way until the end of the visit. Everybody complemented her on how well she was raising us. She was the epitome of wedded motherhood and then lone goddess. At home we were terrorized by rabid mood swings, beatings, mental cruelty and fear. The love and affection she lavished didn't remain on the top of our brains for long because the hurt was so dramatic. Yet, my sister and I kept loving her, hoping for change and freedom. The fan adoration that she received for creating a spotless home, imbuing cooking excellence and the wit to survive it on her own was challenging to us. When we complained to adults it was to a wall of negativity. We were so ungrateful.
It was the epitome of a cult following and the refrain was always the same...
"Does she feed you? Are you clean? Does she provide a roof over your head? You have clothes, you get presents, you have the best mother on the planet. I wish she was my mother." I wished she'd been their mother too.
We were fucked. She created a world in which our screams were mute because she was so shiny. 19-Apr-2018
My mother attempted suicide several times. The first time I was taken out of school where my sister was waiting to inform me. I deactivated myself from the world with the possibility that what I loved most in the world could die. Seeing her after the drugs were pumped out of her made the possibilities ugly. I cried non-stop, I caressed her, I kissed her and told her how much I loved her. I held on to my sister as they carted my mother away for further examination and then my sister schooled me on what to tell the authorities about mother's mental health. They would put her in an asylum and us in foster care if we didn't act accordingly. We needed to establish the overdose was an accident and we shouldn't admit that mother displayed any mental instability. Mother knew to lie as did we and she was given therapy recommendation and allowed to return home. My sister and I dedicated several weeks to making mother feel wanted and appreciated because we witnessed a scenario in which she could be taken away from us.
My mother overdosed a few years later but this time it seemed directed at someone. She attempted suicide in my sister's room. The same process occurred. She received much love and attention and we lied to authorities and said it was her first time (going to a different hospital helped.)
The last time, I was a teenager, I came home and found my mother sleeping on my twin bed with pill bottles laid out on my dresser. She left a note blaming me for the sadness in her life. I called the ambulance, my sister and stepfather. I was schooled once again except the rules had changed. They warned me, don't cry, don't tell her you love her, don't fawn over her. She is doing this for attention and as soon as we ignore her the faster she'll get over it. It broke me to see mother suffer but I listened to my elders and they were right, she never did it again. She threatened us with it but she didn't dare try. Another hospital and another pack of lies to authorities and she was home again.
Like my mother, I'm obsessed with death but I would never commit suicide. My mother had a mantra to life,"the worst thing that could happen is death. It happens to all of us. You shouldn't make choices in life because you are afraid to die." I agree.
As sad as the world gets, I will let my timeline play out because I would like to see how it all ends. I am very saddened that we can create such an unbearable environment for a person that they want to leave it. 10-Apr-2018
You should also take some responsibility for the certifiable monsters walking around today. You helped create them. You can't make one without a mother. 04-Apr-2018
True and courageous is the mother that doesn't seek claps and flowers from her peers and waits for her children to grow up so they can tell her what kind of mother she is. 04-Apr-2018
It happens when parents place a limited bubble around you to see what they want you to see... "a cousin was my first girlfriend." The cousins got closer through intimacy but the strain wilted us. When you break-up with a cousin the reminder of being family becomes unbearable. Our parents did the same and thought it cute so there was no discussion about how the world beyond the bubble were going to perceive us. 29-Mar-2018
Having friends while growing up was a no no. Mother didn't like outside interference and forbade it and would sabotage any attempts. She thought that family was enough. That was all well and good but I didn't visit with the cousins enough to quench my loneliness which also lead to less frequent sex. 29-Mar-2018
I wet my bed once in the first grade, besides a few smacks and verbal screams, my mother thought to implement a life lesson so ingrained that it wouldn't permit it to happen again.
At school, amidst the other parents and plenty of my classmates, my mother trumpeted...
"Guess what my son did this morning?...big little boy had the audacity to wet his bed at his age."
I felt like a criminal. The parents looked shocked but remained silent, some avoided looking at me out of pity and those that did glance were also out of pity. Mother took a heroic bow and was rewarded.
I never pissed myself again because the lesson was about teaching your child to control himself. I control piss, shit, farts, eat, sneezes, coughs, tears, snots, anything internal I can pinch so I never have to embarrass myself or especially anyone... ever again. 13-Mar-2018
My mother proclaimed that the most respectful way to carry out being a slut was if you both consented, the men were not attached, the flirtation was kept modest and the sex remained unexhibited. I applied it to my social life. 09-Feb-2018
I had to trek to the future to find out that in the past I was a twink, my father a brawling gangster, my mother a mental distortion and my sister a secret strategist. 05-Feb-2018
The first time my eyes tasted beauty I was looking up at my mother and she was amazing. I forever tagged her Mami Linda. 06-Jan-2018
The first time I saw a gun, I was a toddler, my mother was wielding it to shoot my father. She shot once, almost hitting her baby brother, before being subjugated.
The first time I felt a gun, I was fifteen, it was pressed against my temple and my mother, who was suffering from a breakup, threatened me with leaving home or dying. I was so exhausted by her instability, I chose death. I closed my eyes and waited for the bang but she chose to spread her boyfriend's clothes in the family room, blocking my exit, and start a fire which I proceeded to extinguish.
The first time I held a gun was to steal it from my mother whilst she vented to her older sister, with the idea of returning it to the idiot that thought she could handle it.
I called my father, explained and pleaded with him to take his gift back. If I could bring it to him he would get rid of it. I put it in a paper bag, headed out and traipsed an hour by subway in panic, sweats and paranoia. I shivered at the presence of police but I didn't rest until it was in my father's hands and out of our lives. My father never allowed her to retrieve the gift and it was one of the most sympathetic gestures my father ever extended to me.
I fought my way out of misery, the ghetto, my mother, without the need for a physical weapon or a gang. I think its why my words are so striking. 04-Jan-2018