Mommie Dearest

compound complex

Isn't it an ironic twist and so very, very Hollywood that I was named Joan. Not so unusual a name, I admit. But that a cute little blonde girl should have as mother dearest a gorgeous, raven-haired madwoman named Christina. What an almost consciously planned twist! If you're not into the old flicks you wouldn't see the irony. The bitter irony of my life.

Those old black and whites held me irresistibly captive, glued to the screen as I was, bewildered that the movie star after whom I was named could be so good and kind on screen (well, if the script called for it) but so different in real life. I'm enough of a realist now, as an adult, not to be swept away by the Sturm und Drang of a fanciful photoplay. Or Hollywood lives. Though the physical pain of the irrational beatings I received as a child is gone, the inner pain has been little eased despite love from caring friends and supportive family members. A good shrink can help.

My sister Joleen, older and, I'll reluctantly admit, wiser, has an outlook I'm simply not able to adopt. Not at this point anyway. She's always been sweet and kindly disposed by nature. After our mother would have one of her characteristic tantrums - volcanic explosions, more aptly - and she and the house were four sheets to the wind, it was Joleen who brought Mommie the wet washcloth and tried to calm us kids down. Dad was at work. That's just it - he was at work. He didn't see the half of what SHE did to Joleen, Toby and me.

My adult's intellect acknowledges that my father had to be gone long hours to earn the rent, put food on the table ... of course! Of course! But when a little child is screaming for help, why is the sober parent never there at those cursed moments of uncontrolled rage?

Why didn't my daddy protect me?

mindmelda

I grew up with an OCD and rage-a-holic mom too. I used to wonder why my dad would put up with her rages and tantrums.

It's because these kind of people attract the co-dependent types.

mrsjones5

Ditto, sad to say some of Mother's behaviors have rubbed off on dear old Dad *rolls eyes*

chickpea

in memory of
my mommie dearest

an armored life

an amazing concept!!!

all mothers are daughters

i heard that on public radio
when they were doing a thing
for mother's day

my own maternal unit
is deceased..
13 years now....

she was....
unhappy
for all of my life
with her

so....when the host
of the radio program
asked for callers
to tell what their mothers
has taught them about life.....

amid the tales and tellings
of lovely sentimental remembrance
i tried to see if i could conjure
something of substance as an
adult child of a raging, physically
and emotionaly abusive alcoholic...

and i could!!

of course it was not a cheery
or optimistic or fond recollection....
those rare interludes
are not what taught me anything...
maybe because they were few,
maybe because they were foreign,
or suspicious or insincere

the lesson i cling to
when reflecting on
what my mother taught me
was how to live...
not by example
but by contrast...

she was bitter
and brittle
and wore her disappointments
like ceremonial garb....
she clung to her misery
with a tenacious and self-pitying
grasp that allowed her to swing
her pain like a battle-axe
thru the lives of anyone
who was in proximal range

none escaped unscathed...
some did not escape at all

i learned from her
that an armored life
is not a protection

it is a prison

and she died
holding the key
in her hand

that is what i learned
and i will always be grateful

purplesofa

I remember the first time I saw Mommie Dearest, it hit me like a ton of bricks,

It particularly brings up one of my mothers violent rampages. When I was a teenager we lived in a two story house, two bedrooms upstairs with a half bath between them. My two brothers in one room and my sister and I in the other.

I must have been the one to clean the bathroom that particular night......I put the toilet brush in the sink to dry out while we were sleeping, so it would not drip water on the floor, Not a practice in our house by any means, but that is what I did. I went to bed and to sleep.

For some reason my Mother came upstairs, I guess she checked on us, surely not just to check to see if the bathroom was clean.......I don't know.

What I do know is that I awoke to my mother beating me with the toilet brush.........screaming at the top of her lungs

Who puts a toilet brush in the sink????? over and over as she kept hitting me over and over with the toilet brush.......stinging my arms and legs.

I was crying and kept saying.....I don't know, I don't know, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO MORE WIRE HANGERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Just remembering and typing this out I feel my body physically altering.

chickpea,

from your poem

she clung to her misery
with a tenacious and self-pitying
grasp that allowed her to swing
her pain like a battle-axe
thru the lives of anyone
who was in proximal range

I felt this way towards my mother all my childhood. I started running away from home when I was 15, and have only through the years been able to tolerate her in small increments. My stepfather who committed suicide while he was married to her, I found out later was wanting to divorce her. I thought how depressed she made me, but I got away, and how miserable his life must have been at the end stuck with her.

This rememberance will probably take a few days to shake off. My names for my mother were Mommie Dearest and Beyond Bitch.

purps

CoCo, please remind me to send you a pm, on Why didn't my father save me?

compound complex

My dear friends,

Thank you sincerely for your comments: heartfelt and gut-wrenching.

I regret conjuring up the painful past for all of us, and pray that, if any sort of closure is possible for you, you might shut that door to misery soon. Viewing Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood brought it back for me, though the details of "Joan's autobiography" are somewhat different from my reality in certain specifics. Nevertheless, a good shrink does help.

Thanking you and wishing you love and peace,

CoCo Healed

Dogpatch

wow dude,

you are clearly amazing

compound complex

Greetings Randy:

It's always a pleasure "seeing" you and hearing from you!

Thanks from the bottom of my heart for all that you've done for us here at JWN and elsewhere on the WWW.

Sincerely,

CoCo

ohiocowboy

I went through the hanger incident was when I was about 12 or 13. My closet had to be kept with pants on one side, and shirts completely on the hanger and hung neatly on the other. One night at about 2:30 in the morning, I was awakened by my mother yelling at me to get up. I had a shirt that was not hung properly, and she told me to get up and hang it up right. I was half asleep, and I asked if I could do it in the morning. WRONG suggestion. She proceeded to get a wire hanger and started beating me with it while yelling at me. I had welts all over my back.

Growing up, my Mother had OCD. I was the one who had to clean the house. I was made to run the vaccuum in a straight line, and the carpet could not show any lines from the vaccuum. When I was done, if there were any lines showing, or the pattern didn't look right to her, I would have to vaccuum all over again. Same went for dusting...I wouldn't dare argue unless I wanted to get beaten. I did not get spankings, it was more of an uncontrollable rage inside her when she went off on me, and I would end up with welts a lot. Even the times she beat me and then found out that I really hadn't done anything to warrant it, she would never apologize, but tell me it was for a time when I should have gotten it, but didn't. I wish that I could say that this is some type of exaggeration, but it was not. I have even tried telling myself that maybe it wasn't so bad, but truth is, it was. I was petrified of my Mother.

compound complex

Hello OCB:

Thank you for sharing something obviously painful to recall.

A cyber-hug from one who cares ...

CoCo

Mommie Dearest

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