I'm not sure if my mother really hated me or if there was just some darkness in her that caused her to constantly be poisoning well. It seems like when I was vulnerable or happy or just in any place where I was trying to be proud about something, she would come along and do whatever she could to ruin it. It was never just some small snide comment that I could brush away. Mom's comment bore deep into me. They have barbs and to this day, I can't pull them out.
While on the phone with me today, my brother commented that my grandfather was probably the best of the Dunns, the most successful and accomplished. He went on to say more stuff, but part of me wasn't even listening. Part of me linked that comment to a conversation I had with my mom when I was very young.
I don't remember where we were, but I want to say we were outside somewhere. Perhaps sitting in the backyard. I was excited because I was going to spend the night with my dad's father and my step-grandmother. I loved them a lot and loved being at their house.
"She's not really your grandmother, you know." This was Mom's first comment about my excited state. I told her I knew this. I knew my dad's mom died before I was born, but my step-grandmother loved me.
My positive spin on Mom's poison never made her happy. She pulled me down and began to brush my hair, complaining about all the tangles.
"They're awful people. Not your step-grandmother, but your grandparents. She was a bitch. Not like my mother. A smarter bitch who got her way."
I didn't like this. I idolized my mom's mom at this point and didn't like it when she said bad things about her. I tried to pull away, but Mom held me in place and pulled on my hair with the brush.
"A few years before she died, your grandpa left your grandma. He had a new girlfriend and she was going to have a baby."
I remember getting really flushed. My face burned as Mom talked about this. I didn't want to hear all the bad stuff, even though she loved to tell me. At that time, I didn't really know how to express how much I didn't want to be part of the conversation, so I just said, "No."
"Yes. Oh yes. He left her. And she told him he would come back to her and he would NOT embarrass her like this. Guess what? He did, because she was a meaner bitch than he was."
"That's good?" I honestly didn't know how to respond.
"No, it's not." I knew she was leading up to the darkest part. Mom seethed a kind of joy when she was getting to the darkest part the way some people start laughing right before telling a punchline. "The girl he got pregnant killed herself. Do you know what that means?"
I did. I don't know how I knew but I did. In my mind, I imagined her using a rope to hang herself or maybe a knife in the bathtub. Even as a little kid, I knew people didn't do this unless they were really hurt. I also knew this meant the baby died too.
Mom turned me around and looked into my eyes. "And that's who you come from. Never forget. That's what you are."
I started crying and nodded.
I thought about all of that as my brother was talking. I didn't want to tell him about it. I didn't want to poison his well about Mom or about my grandfather. I kept my mouth shut, but the memory stayed with me for the rest of the day. Mom did her work well.
What drives me crazy is I don't even know if this is true. It isn't the kind of thing you casually ask a family member. Maybe it isn't. I hope it isn't.
Not that it matters. Mom planted her seeds so well. Even if that never happened, when I was a little kid, my mom told me my grandparents messed with someone's life so horribly that she killed herself. Then she told me that was who I was. The damage is there.
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