Unhook Myself from Old Definitions

Nonfiction / Melissa Fite Johnson

 

:: Unhook Myself from Old Definitions ::

  1. Uncon­di­tion­al love

For­mer­ly: the ide­al, the dream, Don­na Sum­mer song, Tupac Shakur song, what I owe my mother

I was 22 and still liv­ing in my child­hood bed­room. My father had been dead six years. My boyfriend Marc and I were play­ing Nin­ten­do when my moth­er and her boyfriend (off-again when he got a girl my age preg­nant, on-again when that girl mis­car­ried) came home. My moth­er walked to my door and knocked, asked if Marc and I would look at her boyfriend’s pho­tographs. He wasn’t a pro­fes­sion­al pho­tog­ra­ph­er, but he took senior pic­tures of his daughter’s female class­mates for free. I said no. She slammed the door and walked away. Marc start­ed to say “Maybe we should—” when my moth­er returned and threw open the door. I knew what her con­tort­ed expres­sion usu­al­ly pre­ced­ed, but since I had com­pa­ny, I was sur­prised when it hap­pened. When she mor­phed. Her voice low and drawn out, she called me a piece of shit, the mid­dle fin­ger of each hand raised and shaking.

Marc and I went to a bar after that. In our booth, I con­fessed my fear that what he’d seen must have scared him. That he would leave. He looked down at his drink, then direct­ly at me. He said he didn’t think he was ever going to leave. We were eight months in. That was twen­ty years ago.

The next day, my moth­er act­ed like noth­ing hap­pened, like she always did after one of her episodes. She told me she loved me, then prompt­ed me to say it back.

 

  1. Guilt trip

For­mer­ly: minor annoy­ance, road trip com­e­dy star­ring Seth Rogen and Bar­bara Streisand, accept­able means of achiev­ing a desired result

After Marc and I had been togeth­er a few years, we decid­ed not to have kids. He sug­gest­ed it, and once I got past my Mid­west confusion—“What would we do instead?” I asked; “What­ev­er we want,” he replied—I real­ized it wasn’t dis­ap­point­ment I felt, but relief. I’d nev­er been able to pic­ture myself as a moth­er. Maybe because I was try­ing to pic­ture myself as my mother.

I told my moth­er about this deci­sion in the car. I don’t remem­ber where we were going, only that I was dri­ving and I’d picked this moment so I could watch the road instead of her. She said I was killing my father a sec­ond time. I was the only one who could pass on his genes.

 

  1. Daugh­ter

For­mer­ly: best friend, Lore­lai and Rory Gilmore, sole sup­port sys­tem, my most defin­ing title

My ther­a­pist says to write a let­ter to my younger self. “Which one?” I ask her. “Any of them,” she replies. “All of them.”

To myself the day I was born: There’s noth­ing wrong with your face, even though your moth­er is con­sid­er­ing plas­tic surgery already, her first instinct not to mar­vel but to pin your ears back so you match the girl in the mag­a­zine clipping.

To myself at sev­en: There’s noth­ing wrong with your voice, deep­er than oth­er girls’. When your moth­er forces you up an octave, calls the house to make sure you don’t slip into your nat­ur­al voice, please don’t feel guilty about for­get­ting to be some­one oth­er than yourself.

To myself at six­teen: You’re allowed to mourn your father how­ev­er you need. When you ask her to stop leav­ing his let­ters on your bed because it’s too much, her response shouldn’t be, “Fine, bitch.”

To myself at nine­teen: It’s OK you told your moth­er about your boyfriend, about the rape. You should be able to trust a moth­er. Her instinct should’ve been to hold you, to help you. Not to say “At least my boyfriend nev­er raped me.”

To myself at 30: You are not a bad daugh­ter, even if she tells her friends she nev­er sees you— despite Thurs­day din­ners, despite Sun­day mati­nees, despite dai­ly emails. You are not a bad daugh­ter, even if noth­ing is ever enough. Mar­ry Marc. Find your dogs at the shel­ter. Make the most peace­ful life you can imagine.

To myself now: I know hard­ly any­one will under­stand. Peo­ple still tell you she’s the kind­est per­son they’ve ever met. But they don’t know her. You’ve spent your whole life keep­ing peo­ple from know­ing her. You don’t have to be silent any­more, to pro­tect her any­more. You nev­er did. This is your sto­ry to share, your life. And you are allowed to leave.

From the writer

 

:: Account ::

Ear­li­er this year my ther­a­pist said my moth­er was the stereo­type of an emo­tion­al abuser—manipulation, cru­el­ty, denial, grand ges­tures and love bomb­ing. It felt like relief, hear­ing that. Feel­ing val­i­dat­ed and seen. I’ve been feel­ing a lot of relief (and grief, to be fair) this year—breaking free of my moth­er, final­ly talk­ing and writ­ing about these for­mer­ly hid­den aspects of my rela­tion­ship with her. My moth­er has nev­er owned or even acknowl­edged her behav­ior, so it would’ve been impos­si­ble for her to tell me to keep it a secret, but some­how I always knew my job was to pre­tend it away, even to myself. So I ratio­nal­ized, I called our rela­tion­ship “com­pli­cat­ed,” I focused on the good. There was a lot of good. When she was her best self, she was one of my favorite peo­ple to hang out with. As I’ve got­ten old­er and more secure, though, as I’ve under­stood what love should look like, I’ve stopped being able to pre­tend. I’ve stopped want­i­ng to. I used to be afraid that if I told peo­ple about this side of my moth­er, they wouldn’t believe me, or they’d think I was exag­ger­at­ing. I was even more afraid that if I end­ed my rela­tion­ship with her, peo­ple would think I was a ter­ri­ble per­son. But I’ve start­ed con­fid­ing in more peo­ple about my moth­er, and I’ve been star­tled to learn how many peo­ple I admire and respect are estranged from fam­i­ly mem­bers. And even though it ter­ri­fies me to be this hon­est about my mother—on some lev­el I still believe I’m break­ing our unspo­ken vow of silence—I actu­al­ly think it’s real­ly impor­tant that peo­ple try to be more open about emo­tion­al abuse, which can feel so ambigu­ous. It’s too easy for peo­ple to doubt their own mem­o­ries or feel like they deserve to be treat­ed this way. For years, that’s what I did, and that’s how I felt.

Melis­sa Fite John­son is the author of three full-length col­lec­tions, most recent­ly Midlife Abecedar­i­an (Riot in Your Throat, 2024). Her poems have appeared in Ploughshares, Pleiades, HAD, Whale Road Review, SWWIM, and else­where. Melis­sa teach­es high school Eng­lish in Lawrence, KS, where she and her hus­band live with their dogs.