I think I inherited a touch of anxiety from my mother, much as I hate to admit it.
I have spent most of my adult life trying to be different from my mother. I felt sometimes that, because I was her oldest child and daughter, that she expected me to be like her in most ways. I, on the other hand, wanted to be myself, and that meant to be the polar opposite to her.
She was shy and hesitant around new people; I tried to be bold and confident. She put herself down because she didn't go to college; I flaunted my education like a new hairdo. She liked to stop during the day and take a nap; I was always working and doing. I would come home from my job as a teacher and immediately jump into cleaning the kitchen, cooking, or maybe going out for a run.
But a daughter is a daughter. I am shy in many situations, until I feel comfortable enough to be bold. I compare myself to other people, and too often wonder why I as not as good as -- a best-selling author, a charismatic speaker, or a serene acupuncturist. Why am I not as sure of myself, as myself, as those people are? Never mind that I have no idea how they might feel about themselves.
My mother also suffered from anxiety during much of her life. She had difficulty making changes in her life; she worried about her children to the extent of retro-active worrying. In other words, if she found out one of us had done something that might have put us at some small risk, she commented later, "If I had known you were doing that, I would have worried."
Although in later years she loved to travel, there was a time when she only traveled because my dad wanted to take trips after they retired.
I love to travel. I love everything about it. I love the sights, sounds and smells of places that are different. I love foreign languages; I love trying new food.
But I get butterflies in my stomach preparing for a trip, and I have put a lot of time and effort learning to visualize peace and calm in every situation.
I am my mother's child as well as myself. And isn't that the point of raising children? We want them to be the best of ourselves as well as their own best.
I have the opportunity to learn and grow, and isn't that what it is all about?
2 comments:
Hello Kathleen,
I loved reading through the posts on your blog. Sifting through the memories of your mom that bubble up is both touching and inspiring.
Three weeks... The heart takes time. It's been nearly four years from my end. The pain of missing her has lessened though there are still times the ache is sharp enough to cause tears to spring to my eyes.
Recently I shared this with the mother of a friend of mine, a woman in her seventies. She commiserated and mentioned that she still misses her mother, though it's been decades.
Some say the bond is never broken and I remember one day, while driving home and once again bursting into tears, a realization dawned. My mom would always live on in my heart and in my memories. Although the tears still well up occasionally, I know she'll always be a part of me.
Thanks for sharing your thoughts so openly. You are a lovely writer!
--Chiron O'Keefe
The Write Soul: www.chironokeefe.blogspot.com
I have come to the conclusion that it is OK to think about, and write about, what makes me cry, but not what makes me sad. There is a difference.
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