So this is it. My life. Wind howling, ears ringing, empty rooms, bruised heart. I’m fifty-three years old and my chicks have, for all intents and purposes, flown the coop. Not that they were in the coop all that much. Half the time with their dad, half the time with me. Now that they’re older, a short visit here and there. I know they love me, maybe even need me to a small degree, but I’m not essential to their wellbeing and I should be okay with that. Their independence means I’ve done my job and let’s face it, it wasn’t a job I was meant to do full-time in the first place. Some people have the mom gene. I definitely have the mama bear instinct, but the day to day machinations of motherhood? Not my strength. If it wasn’t for mac and cheese and cereal my kids would have gone hungry. Okay, that’s not completely true. I make a mean lasagna, beef stew and frittata, and am a hell of a baker, but that’s where my culinary repertoire ends. Thank god for bagged salad, frozen burritos, ravioli, and wood-grilled pizza crusts. Apples with peanut butter. Charcuterie. We do a mean charcuterie board in this house.
Being a mom isn’t all about healthy, home cooked meals, though, is it? I have to remind myself of that. My kids still snuggle up to me on the couch to watch a movie. Two of my three kids share my passion for history and politics. All three caught my travel bug. And they’re good humans. I think that may be my biggest accomplishment. They care about people, are sensitive, intelligent, strong and kind. They don’t let people shit all over them, but are compassionate. Some may call them bleeding heart liberals (my son would strongly oppose that description, but it’s true honey!); a badge of honor in my opinion. It sure beats the alternative. I could have raised self-serving, greedy assholes, but I didn’t and they aren’t.
I feel too much and too little. Most days are tedious, filled with mundane tasks. Grading papers, creating lesson plans, attending meetings, trying to get my students excited about learning. When I’m not in my classroom trying to mold the minds of teenagers, I sit in my living room, on my comfy couch that bears the indent of my ass, and mindlessly watch television. Doesn’t really matter what. Documentaries, crime shows, rom coms (though I draw the line at reality television). Watching the news is far too stressful so I read it instead.
I alternate between staring blankly at one screen with doomscrolling on another. Sucked into the black hole of social media, bemoaning the fate of my country, wishing there was something more I could do to save it. I won’t try to hide my disdain for the current administration any longer. No, I see it as my patriotic duty to call out the unconstitutional acts these fucking monsters commit on a daily basis. But I do this in a vacuum. Who am I in the grand scheme of things? I’m nobody. Of my roughly five hundred Facebook “friends” and Instagram followers, a sum total of maybe two dozen people seem to give a shit that we’re hurtling toward fascism and the loss of our basic rights. Or maybe the rest are too afraid to speak out? If so, the masses have been muzzled in record time. Trump and Musk are doing Putin/Hitler proud.
When I was younger, I thought I’d be…more. I thought I’d make a difference in this world, but it looks like it’s my kids who are left with that task. They have more courage than I had at their ages. More self-respect. More confidence. They honestly don’t give a fuck what others think of them and god, I respect them for it. It wasn’t until my forties I reached that level of self-awareness. Even now I find myself trying to please my father. I had given up on that relationship at some point. Believed it was dead and gone. But then my mother and brother were literally dead and gone and I thought maybe, just maybe, he’d care enough to try to know me. Try to be my dad again. But he didn’t and it hurt, just as it always did. So I thought I’d let it go, accept that though he was present on this earth, he wouldn’t be part of my life.
Then I remembered, he’s seventy-eight years old and won’t be here forever. And whenever I think of him dying, I’m seized with panic. What if I don’t ever have a relationship with him? Will I regret not calling him? Not trying harder? I don’t want to live with remorse, as I do with my mother and brother, so I’ve been giving it this one last effort.
My dad is not a bad person. I know he loves me in his own way, but he has never fought for me and I still don’t understand why. I know I’m a strong cup of tea, not to everyone’s taste, but aren’t parents predisposed to protecting their offspring? There’s nothing my children could do that would cause me to stop fighting for them. To abandon them, to give up. I used to feel like an alien in my own family, even as a child. I had a map of the world in my room with pins in it of all the places I wanted to visit (I still have it in my basement), eager to explore new places and cultures. I loved to perform and sing in front of crowds and dreamed of moving to New York City, seeing my name up in lights. And when I did miraculously make that move, it took me less than a year to realize I wasn’t pretty or talented enough to make it in show biz. And I was left wandering around in the dark, trying to figure out my place in the world.
I would catch my father looking at me, bewildered. Where did this creature come from? Why isn’t she satisfied with small town life, with a small-town job, and small-town dreams? Why was I into theater and activism instead of cheerleading and bulimia? Why couldn’t I marry an ordinary guy, settle down in town, have 2.5 kids and a dog? I don’t know why that life didn’t appeal to me, but I did try. After I gave up my unrealistic dreams of fame and fortune, I became a history teacher (same as dad), had three kids (one out of wedlock, shame!), married and divorced a narcissist, and stayed in Rhode Island. It’s been an existential struggle almost every day, knowing the life I’m leading is not one of my own choosing.
So I retreated and have been living on a weird little island of a thousand people, virtually cut off from civilization from October through May, for almost nine years. Unknowingly, I created a situation that further isolated me from family. It’s easy to forget the outside world exists on this island. I think that’s why people move here. My mom died two years into this self-imposed exile and I hardly saw her during that time. I love my mother. I hope she knows that. My brother died over two years ago, my only sibling, my twin, and I avoided him for many reasons while he was alive, most of them selfish and deeply regrettable. I’d give anything for one of his rambling phone calls now. I love and miss him so much.
Dad is the only person left in my immediate family, besides my children. But he has another family and has had for thirty-five years. Not his blood, but that doesn’t matter. Nor should it, I guess. My step-sisters have been more like daughters to him than I ever was. They live close by, they are always at each other’s houses. They spend holidays together, the holidays I’m not invited to because of perceived slights I wasn’t aware of until it was “too late” and am now tasked with repairing. We deal with things in our own ways, and they choose to shut down and ignore. I’m more of a ‘let’s hash this shit out’ kind of person, but whatever. It is what it is.
So, I have a choice. My dad would like me to keep reaching out to them so we can “bring the family back together.” He said that to me on the phone last night and I had to laugh. I said, “Dad, it would be nice if my father told them he wanted me to be present.” His response? Not a vociferous Of course I want you there, Jayne! It was “Baby steps, Jayne. One step at a time.” That hurt. And yes, I’m crying. Do I keep reaching out and continue feeling hurt, on rinse and repeat with the hope that one day they “forgive” me…or lose my last chance to know my dad? I’ve chosen the rinse and repeat approach for now, for as long as I can take it. But it won’t last forever. A person can only take so much. One day I’ll stop, but at least I’ll know I’ve given it my best shot.
In the meantime…therapy. Lots and lots of therapy. I want to one day be in a healthy loving relationship (wouldn’t that be nice?) and I know my issues with my father are the rotting root of the reason I keep picking the wrong men. Why I spend years alone, then spend years with someone who doesn’t quite fit. Years of my life, decades, spent in either monastic solitude or trying to shave off pieces of myself to fit into a puzzle I should probably want, but don’t. I read a quote this week. “You don’t meet the people you love, you recognize them.” That struck a chord with me. I don’t want to force myself to feel anything, I want to recognize the people I love. And for that, I need to be patient.
I live a strange existence. I know I do.
The island of misfit toys is real, I’m here, and while others create a life for themselves on this three by seven mile piece of rock in the middle of the Atlantic, I haven’t. Not really. I’m comfortable in my little (rented) house, so much so I hardly leave it anymore, hence the ass dent in my relatively new, rather expensive couch. I’m so done with this place, yet feel trapped. If I could hop in my car and drive off this island right now, I would, probably toward the Canadian border. But the boats aren’t running today so unless I grow a set of wings or close my eyes and wish my way onto the mainland, it ain’t happening. The only escape from this place I see in my future is a move to another country. Italy is calling me home, the land of my ancestors. Is that more dreaming on my part or the best move I could possibly make? I guess time will tell.
I’m sick of living in fear. I know that’s not how people perceive me. I’m tough. Nothing gets under my skin. Fuck the patriarchy! But just because a person lives an untraditional life, holds their chin up and doesn’t wilt under pressure doesn’t mean they haven’t operated from the point of fear. I’m afraid of change while craving it. When I divorced my ex-husband, I left with nothing and financial security has been more of a dream than a reality since. I’m afraid of giving up a secure job, though I’m burnt out. I’m afraid of losing healthcare, my pension, benefits. I’m afraid I’ll die in this house (particularly on a Friday) and no one will notice I’m gone until I’m missing from work Monday morning. I’m terrified of losing my memory or getting the disease that ultimately killed my mother. Such a horrible, painful way to go.
I’m afraid of dying having never fully lived. That’s why I travel so much. I’m trying to see as much of the world as I can while I’m healthy enough to enjoy it, a race against a clock that ticks by faster every year. There is more sand on the bottom of the hourglass than what remains above and that scares the shit out of me.
I look around my cozy house full of books, photos and knickknacks, and all I see is stuff that will be picked over when I’m gone. Who will take my books? My jars of sea glass? My political button collection? The photo albums and jewelry? The Christmas ornaments and record albums? More clothes than anyone should rightfully own? My mismatched dishes, some antique glassware I inherited from my mother and grandmothers? My ancient teddy bear? The stupid DVDs I never watch and CDs I never listen to? My arts and craft tools in the basement I never use? My fucking wedding dress and veil? They’re so beautiful, simple, elegant and timeless. Will they end up at Goodwill?
Will anyone care that I spent so much time collecting these items? Is that what life is reduced to in the end? Stuff?
I should be rewriting the book I’ve been working on forever. My novels will last long after I’m gone. Instead I’m writing this think piece on aging and parental relationships, a journal entry I’ll release into the ether. Maybe it will reach people who need to read it, maybe not. Does it matter in the end? I feel better having purged it, maybe that’s enough? After all, I’m nobody to most of the world, but somebody to a select few (particularly those who call me Mom). I love you, kiddos, more than words can ever express. And maybe, in the end, that’s life.