Why Me? Moving Past Abusive Mother Issues
Why Me?
The first time I touched a naked woman, she asked, “Why me?” I thought, What an odd question! She wasn’t tied up. Though we tried that later. Looking back, I can see that she wanted to know that she was special to me; which, indeed, she was.
Listen to “Why Me, Lord?”!
Kris Kristopherson wrote a famous gospel song, called “Why me, Lord?” in which he asked, “What have I ever done to deserve even one of the pleasures I’ve known?”; gratitude wrapped in irony. But most of the time, we intone the words “Why me?” as a lament — as in, “Why did you do this to me?” or, “Why did this happen to me?” — as if we were being unjustly punished.
I sometimes wonder why I was born to a mother who is like Lucy in Peanuts. Like Schroeder, I just wanna be left alone to play my fucking piano. Like Lucy, she is incapable of leaving me be. She pesters me, incessantly, for the attention to which, I suppose, most aggressively opinionated people feel entitled.
She often wonders why I rarely call her. Answer: I rarely get the chance! She beats me to it, most of the time. I would love to have the luxury of missing my mother . . . while she is still alive!
She would call me every day, if I didn’t set boundaries. Even so, she calls me more than she knows I want her to. I’ve asked her, even demanded, that she not call me on Saturday nights, for instance. It makes no difference if I ask politely or demand fervidly. She calls whenever she damn well pleases.
When I do press the “answer” button, rather than “ignore”, about once a week (except on Saturday nights), my role is to fulfill the Prayer of St. Francis — to console, to understand and to love — for a half-hour at a time. She rarely asks me any questions. I am expected to listen and reassure her every few seconds with affirmations.
It is a grand achievement, and also rare, for me to end these monologues in a civil manner. I can’t just say, “I have to go. I love you. Goodbye.” She ignores these words. I typically have to say it again and again, each time more emphatic than the last, until I blow my stack and hang up on her. Then, as surely as Lucy will pull the football away before Charlie Brown can kick it, I get an email exclaiming how she carried me in the womb for nine months and I can’t even listen to her for a few minutes.
I don’t have much of a sex life, these days, for reasons that don’t have anything to do with my mother; though it wouldn’t take a Freudian analyst to suggest a few reasons that do. And I don’t need anyone else to remind me that I began this piece about my mother with the image of a naked woman. But I will submit one last uncanny complaint. On those rare occasions when Eros embraces me and another, or even just me, my phone vibrates and the word “MOM” appears on the screen.
”Arggggh! She got me, again!”
Now, you may find all of this amusing and cute. Actually, I hope you do. I’ve learned that it doesn’t help to feel bad about this. But I invite you, for a moment, to put yourself in my place — And, good Lord, why wouldn’t you? — and see if you don’t involuntarily cry, “Why me?”
Why NOT Me?
The other night, as I was saying my prayers — Now I lay me down to sleep — like a good boy (like my mommie taught me), the perverse thought came to me: Why not me? Who better to bear my particular burden than me? Would you want it?
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“Why me?” thickens the cement of victimization around my ankles. “Why not me?” transforms problems into opportunities.
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“Why me?” thickens the cement of victimization around my ankles. “Why not me?” transforms problems into opportunities. For years, I’ve felt crippled by certain circumstances. No more! Now I have the opportunity to become the best there is at . . . well, uh . . . dealing with my mother. I’ve always wanted to be really good at something.
After Satan had taken away his family, his livestock and his health (he was covered in boils), Job asked God, “Will you never look away from me, or let me alone even for an instant? If I have sinned, what have I done to you, you who see everything we do? Why have you made me your target? Have I become a burden to you?” (Job 7:19-20, NIV) Job’s faith was tested because there was “no one on earth like him;” he was “blameless and upright.” (Job 1:8) In other words, he was special. I suppose I have my ordinariness and my imperfections to thank that I still have my mother and my cats; and I don’t have any boils, except for a few pimples on my butt.
In the end, of course, Job was a better man, in every way, for having survived his ordeal with his faith intact. I may just have to wait until my mother passes on before I’m allowed to miss her. But with my newfound optimism, I have every reason to believe that my butt pimples will be gone long before she is.