I’ve always been known to be brutally honest. It amuses me when I hear myself described this way because I don’t see it as being out of the ordinary or bad. If I were to receive a diagnosis I’m sure there’d be something about social unawareness/awkwardness. I don’t think I fall “on the spectrum” but my synapses certainly don’t all connect as they should. I’m one of those people who lack a filter. I realize that I am horribly sensitive and terrifically insensitive at the same time. I simply don’t see the harm in honesty but I know it’s there. I’ve been told, and I’ve certainly felt its sting more than once – even tonight when my daughter told me my teeth were yellow.
When I write I can be more careful than when I talk, so I’d rather write. I can blurt and delete and that’s preferable. Write. Write. Write. Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete. I try to be careful in what I write but my version of careful still seems to fall south of my intentions.
I wrote about my mom recently. I was trying to explain how things went from bad to good in our relationship over the course of the last thirty years, along with an apology for the one-sided way in which I’ve told my little stories. I mixed in some seventies nostalgia and it got muddled.
I read it to my mother as I worked on it. “Wait a day.” she said. Then I wrote some more and called her an hour later, and then again a little while after that. She listened to me read it out loud each time and then suddenly told me it was done and to put it up online. She said it was great. I posted it. Many people loved it but a few days later I realized that my mother’s friends were completely quiet about the piece and I knew I had failed to do what I had intended.
A couple of people have hinted that I had pumped her up and knocked her down at a ratio of 1:1. Ugh. If a person had been reading all along and had the uncluttered steel-trap memory of a two year old then they’d have known that I was bringing up stuff I’d already written about, but this time with an attempt to see my mother’s side of things. As a standalone piece or a first read I can see how it didn’t quite cut it. Crap.
I asked my mom about it. “Well, you could put in something about our relationship now.” she said, though without any complaining or guilt-inducing tone. She isn’t like that. “You could put in what you like about me or why you’re proud of me.”
Yes, I can. My mom is more generous than anyone I know. She shares what she has with all of her kids and with strangers alike. She has helped us buy houses and cars. She helped me with the massive expense associated with infertility and I have my beautiful twins to thank her for. They are my life. Without her help both financially and emotionally I would not have my children, nor would I have made it through some of the harder times my children and I have faced as a family of three.
She comes to visit her grown children when we are in hell (and we are all in hell with some frequency) and she loves us and she loves our children.
She listens to people. She reads what they write. She helps them. She answers emails and fan mail. She’s a good friend. I’ve heard tell that she’s an amazing teacher. She leaves insanely enormous tips.
She has certainly lived through more than her share of hell and here she stands: strong, independent, incredibly well-loved and respected. By me! And by many more.
We’ve both had to work hard to get to where we are now. We’ve both had to overcome hurt feelings and chilly receptions over the years with each other. We’re not so good at talking about all that but we don’t have to. I don’t think either one of us likes staring too long under a rock.
We are friendly and we are friends. She’s the one person I can count on to laugh at the things I find funny. Most people don’t find my humor funny at all. Most of my jokes land with a great big thud. So when I have some hysterical tidbit stored up it’s such a treat to get her on the phone and hear her howl with laughter. I know what will make her laugh.