VW Bugs and Why Killing Your Mother is Not (in fact) Murder

After I moved to Wales for graduate school, and it was clear that (for one reason or another) my mind and body were beginning to unravel at an alarming rate, my parents sent me a book called Perfect Girls, Starving Daughters by Courtney E. Martin. It was the first time I picked up a non-fiction book and found myself on every single page. After reading for only a few minutes I was cracked open and bleeding on the carpet. Never had I encountered such a candid discussion about the women of my generation and the struggle we have with our bodies. I would be giving myself very little credit if I blamed all my struggles on the state of my body or how I perceive it, but only someone who has suffered eating disorders, depression, or suicidal tendencies/ideation can understand that when you wage a battle within yourself, the most profound victim is usually your body.
Anna Quindlen, a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist and author, wrote in her 2005 book Being Perfect, "Someday, sometime, you will be sitting somewhere. A bench overlooking a pond in Vermont. The lip of the Grand Canyon at sunset. A seat on the subway. And something bad will have happened: You will have lost someone you loved, or failed at something at which you badly wanted to succeed. And sitting there, you will fall into the center of yourself. You will look for some core to sustain you. And if you have been perfect all your life and have managed to meet all the expectations of your family, your friends, your community, your society, chances are excellent that there will be a black hole where that core ought to be."
I used to be perfect.
There was a drive inside to please my family, please my friends, please the kids on the back of the bus, teachers, colleges, boyfriends... No matter how high I flew, how many countries I visited, how good my grades were, how many awards I received at my high school and college graduations, it was never enough. I would never be good enough and my body has always suffered from this self-loathing.
I can easily say that I love my parents. They are very good people, very supportive and loving. Who else would think to send their child a book when they're falling apart overseas? And, like all baby-boomers, they repeated their mantra to me over and over again. "You are capable of great things. You can do anything you want to do; be anyone you want to be." With a world of possibilities on my shoulders, and a nature sensitive enough to want to make everyone happy, it was recipe for disaster.
So, I need to kill my mother.
Now, why must I kill my mother, you ask? Because when it comes to little girls, their mothers (or lack thereof as the case maybe) are the examples for what it means to be a woman. My mom is brilliant. Literally. She has a genius IQ, is a very talented writer, raised four successful kids, has maintained a healthy and happy relationship of twenty years, and is always striving to be the best at everything she does. I watched her mutter and sweat her way through mediocre jobs until she carved an indispensable niche for herself. I heard the stories of how she battled sexism and abuse in prior relationships.
My mom is a warrior.
I also watched how she refused to cry in public; how she insisted that she was "fine" even when it was painfully obvious that she wasn't. I learned from her how to hate my body, because there was never a day when she was satisfied with her own. There was always a restless discontentment to her energy that I can recall from my childhood. It's only been in recent years that the discontentment has started to ease from her presence. It took me a long time to realize that she was struggling with an internal battle of her own.
About two weeks ago I had an extremely vivid dream. I had just bought my dream car (VW Beetle, turbo-diesel, in bright orange. You heard me.) and was sitting behind the wheel, but my mom would pop up and try to take over. The dream consisted of us battling for control of the car. By the end of the dream there was no clear winner. I've been thinking about it ever since.
I don't want to be my mother. My expectations are not her expectations, and at this point in my life, pleasing her should not be a priority. I will not marry the kind of man she married, or lead the life she led.
Daughters have the uncanny ability to take their mother's demons upon themselves.
The cure for this is to have a well oiled voice of your own that shouts out loud and clear, and to be willing to kill the other voices that have taken over our sense of self. We can love our mothers and all the other people we've been trying to please all our lives, and still not want them to take up residency in our minds. It's time to make them vacate; drag them out by their hair and slit their throats if necessary.
It pays to be brutal.
My mom is only just now starting to hear her own voice. That voice loves writing, gardening and buying beautiful things for her house. That voice loves nachos on the porch, with lit tiki torches and long discussions with my dad.
It is not the voice of her mother.
My mom, over the last two years, lost twenty pounds for no discernible reason. I say it's because the battle is stopping and she no longer has to defend herself from the expectations of others. When I visited New Mexico last, my mom and I took a day, went to my various appointments and had lunch. Over lunch I had the most candid discussion I've ever had with her in my life. I cried, I laughed and I actively decided that I would be honest, even if she disapproved or didn't understand. I could tell from the expression on her face that she barely recognized me at all; she was seeing the adult me for the very first time. It is, to date, one of our best moments together.
My life has slowed down a lot. In many ways, I am still in the healing process from my crash in Wales. Some days are more frustrating than others, but no one could continue the pace I was keeping and maintain their sanity. In Wales, I found myself going to Rhossili a lot, and walking out on to the Worm's Head or sitting on the cliffs and staring out to sea. No matter where I went, or how breath-taking the scenery was, I could not feel the core of myself. Inside the five year relationship with my boyfriend, there are times when I pick fights and I'm not sure who is doing it- me, or the voice of my mother. I can't feel my voice in my own relationship because I keep hearing outside expectations, and not the expectations of my self.
But the voices are getting quieter, like a radio that is starting to lose its frequency. The more the voices blur, the more I feel in tune with my self, with my body, with what I want and how I'm feeling.
My goal is to get behind the wheel of my car, throw my mom out on the curb and run her over if I have to.
Dead moms tell no tales.
I want my life, my relationships, and my body to belong to me, not to what I thought my mother wanted from me, or for me, all my life. I realize this is only one piece of a puzzle, but at least this part is making sense. I am winning the battle. I am healthier than I've ever been, which means that I am finally nourishing my self and my body, instead of punishing it.