I figured something out this weekend, and it is so goddamned sad.
I have spent my whole life thinking my mother doesn't love me.
Like, she says she loves me, and she is always trying, but I for sure believed with my heart of hearts that she was just being nice. That I didn't deserve her love and would never really actually get it.
That was reserved for other people, like my brother.
But I guess I never thought it out loud...said it out loud? I felt it in my heart, but I never thought it consciously.
And then this weekend we talked. And she did her usual song and dance about trying to make things right, that she thought I was too smart for her to parent me, even when I was in kindergarten. That she was intimidated by me....even before kindergarten. And it still sounds tinny to my ears, like a half truth, but this time I actually heard her.
That, coupled with two other things, has convinced me, though, that she might love me.
The first happened weeks ago; I got a hold of some old family films from when I was an infant and a baby, and I watched them with her. I had already watched them with so much self judgement, so little empathy for the little human I was, the child I saw on the film. But she said instantly, instinctually, what a beautiful baby I was. And I realized she meant it. And my heart broke.
Then, this weekend, the morning after we talked, I snooped in her phone a bit, just to see what there was to see. It's an old, shitty habit I've almost broken, but I indulged. You learn so much about people this way, after all. And the first photo that popped up, the last thing she was looking at, was a photo of me. Which is crazy, because why would she choose to look at a photo of me unless she had to, or wanted to. And she didn't have to.
So I guess she wanted to?
Even though I was just in the other room, just sharing a bedroom with her yesterday.
She still wanted more of me.
Fucking crazy.
I think she might actually love me.
