one way to say “mom” in japanese is “haha”

8 billion people in the world, and I know I’m a pretty basic bitch. Many such cases as me. That means there are many people with c-ptsd who are especially triggered on mother’s day. If you’re like me, it’s a potent concoction of grief, bitterness, and guilt. I feel ugly when I sometimes resent this beautiful touchstone of so many people’s lives. This is a day when it’s thrown in my face over and over and over, testing my sage resolve. I still see my mom in the nursing home, and the darling daughter act has to be particularly on point today. Not a hint of negativity, or the judgemental stares come in from all sides. This is her day. You dig deep and bring up all that gratitude you owe her. No one is perfect, Robyn. Every mother is just doing their best.

I have the double whammy of a medically necessitated hysterectomy. Mother is now a word that rips me apart so completely. The universe ravaged my childhood, and took my ability to bring a child into the world. Yet I can’t let myself sour the mood on a day like today. It’s not about me, you know? “If it’s not for you, just scroll past”. Abstract the concept, be happy for others. Everyone has trauma they are compartmentizing for the convenience of the people around them. That’s what being an adult means.

Maybe for a moment, if your story sounds like mine…let’s step away from the party and get some air. Play fetch (or no-take only-throw) with the family dog. De-compartmentalize with each other, where we won’t be a bother. I know you can’t see me, and I can’t see you. That’s the tricky thing with c-ptsd. We often find ourselves isolated in our darkest moments. Connection is terrifying, retraumatizing. Old patterns repeat despite how we try. There’s mounting evidence that we are permanently broken. Hope feels like gaslighting.

There is one little trick I’ve learned though. My childhood taught me to empathize like my life depended on it, because it felt like it did. Predicting and problem solving my mother’s moods was how I kept anything from escalating, which made it easier to hide any of my negative emotions, which prevented me from being locked in my room until I was “ready to behave”. I was a mind reader and bomb defuser all it one. I can subvert this pattern when I listen to other people’s stories – I feel their pain so deeply, so immediately, even before I consciously register the parallels. Before the status quo self-abandonment kicks in, that empathy quick slips back onto myself. Their story is mine.

Why did you name me “Robyn”, mama?

I read somewhere that Robyn with a “y” means “bright light”. I like that because bright can mean intelligent, but it can also mean someone who brings joy, like a light in someone’s life. That is everything you could want in a daughter, I think.

A few artist’s notes about the collage–

The green and orange stripes look just like every button down shirt she owned – she had a rainbow of them, but it was all the same, all with 2 breast pockets so she didnt have to wear a bra. Unfortunently it doesn’t really show, but that transparent paper has baby foot prints on it. My dad’s favorite cartoon character is snoopy, and he(my dad) is the one who taught me how to find the good in my mom, and in everything. The Japanese says, “Try saying “mom”. Then I’ll forgive you.”

My mom’s bathroom. “Her favorite place”, we jokingly called it. She had bowel problems that necessitated her staying there long and often. Longer, if her library book was particularly good that week. It was where she escaped to her guilty pleasures. She smoked occasionally. “It helps with the migraines.” She would “hide” her tequila below the sink. I learned it was the bathroom, not the bedroom, where privacy was respected. It’s where you went to be naked, sinful, alone. It was also the only safe place to cry.

I still find myself haunting bathrooms like moaning myrtle when rejection and overwhelm makes me feel unsafe. There’s protection from perception while I re-stuff my unsightly triggered shame. Little by little I add to my list of safe places. My car is now one of them. Safe people? …my borrowers, I suppose, the lurkers on this blog. Maybe safe is too strong a term when it comes to digital one way glass. My friend Laura, and my cousin Maggie – with two-way glass and a telephone on either side. Day by day, I’m finding the people it’s safe to be sad with. One day, they will be sitting here beside me.