Jackson Free Press

My senior year in college was the first time I knew my mother loved me. Of course I knew she loved me. But it wasn't until my senior year that I really got it. I spent many years trying to be someone other than who I was. Who I was trying to be, I'm still not sure, but I'd taught myself a long time ago that who I was wasn't good enough. All sorts of things contributed to the negative self-talk I listened to and let myself believe.

When I was little, my mother dressed me up like a doll. I don't remember this, but I've heard her talk about it. All of the pictures of me as a tyke testify to that fact. I looked adorable in them. Even now, looking pulled-together is important to me. My mother set the example that there's rarely an excuse for looking sloppy. The problem with this, however, is that I internalized looking pulled-together and made it my mission to act as if I were pulled-together on the inside as well. This is far from the truth.

I've always been a hard worker. This is not because it came naturally or because I comprehended at an early age that good things come to those who work for them. I was working for approval. So I worked hard. Almost everything I did, I was good at, or I wouldn't try it. I'm a classically trained pianist who went to competitions and did well. I played the saxophone in high school. I tried to stand out at whatever I did by trying to make it look simple. No one forced me to do these things, but I felt obligated. I wanted my mother, family folks and friends to be proud. My self-imposed obligations became burdensome, but I bore them with a smile.

My grin-and-bear-it approach betrayed me. Every day it took me one step further away from who I was. I knew I wasn't the persona I'd created, but I didn't know how to become her, so I kept right on acting.

The walls around me collapsed as I scrambled to pile up the rubble so I could hide. I didn't want everyone to know that I was a fraud.

My senior year in college was the breaking point. That year, I pretended as usual, but things just weren't working. As I tried to keep up the charade, the grades that were slipping in previous years began to plummet; the attempts I made at looking like I had it all together were failing. The barriers I'd put up to protect myself from myself came down in a Joshua-and-the-wall-of-Jericho fashion one Saturday afternoon.

I was headed back to school after Christmas break, and I started to cry. These tears were unlike any tears I'd shed before. They were old tears. Ones I didn't cry when I was violated as a child, the ones I didn't cry when my ideas of perfection weren't met. I cried tears of disappointment for the love that I never received from my father, and because no matter how hard I tried, I never was quite good enough. They were the tears that had settled in my spirit because I'd constantly compared my insides to everyone else's outsides. Tears for my future flowed because I knew I couldn't continue to live a lie.

Yes, I cried. And my mother held me. It was the first hug I remember where I felt love. I will always be grateful that my mother was the one who gave me that hug. This was the kind of mother I heard people talking about, and it felt good.

I held on to that moment as long as I could, as I returned to school, despite doctor's advice to take a break. I didn't want to be embarrassed by not graduating with my class, and while my tears were cathartic, I still thought that if I didn't return to school, people would somehow find out that I wasn't as whole and perfect as I pretended to be.

See, I didn't believe there was love that you didn't have to earn. I believed that even my mother loved me only because I was her daughter and she had to. So, I hid myself, put on an air of confidence so as to not disappoint and hoped my mom would be proud. I wanted to be like her, so I emulated what I saw. That Saturday afternoon was my breaking point, but it took time before I embraced who I was and accepted that I would be loved just for that.

As I began to see myself, I took a bold step and shared my discoveries in small doses with my mother. It wasn't always pretty, but she didn't flinch. Sharing my "new" self with my mother was as frightening as it was a relief. I didn't know what to expect, but what I got was beautiful. She stood there, arms wide open, ready to love me in spite of my confusion and screw-ups. And as I opened up, so did she. For the first time in my life, I understood that my flaws didn't make me ugly or undesirable, only human. "People don't come in perfect," I hear my mother saying even as I write this.

My mother's one of the wisest women I know. She's classy, and I've never seen her slouch. She can talk to anyone and for that reason, people reach out to her. She reaches back. When she smiles, her eyes light up, and her laughter is soothing like wind chimes. My mother is humble, willing to listen and as strong as the mother who reared her. She has vulnerabilities that you'll never see at first glance. Like countless other women, she's had heartaches. Some of her emotional bruises come from mistakes she's made, and others have come just because she's lived. She's human.

People tell me from time to time, "You look just like your mama." Although I don't, I thank them because it means that they see the beauty in her just like I do. I've already done my fair share of struggling, and it probably won't get any easier. I'll continue to disappoint myself and make mistakes. I'll definitely cry some more tears. But if I have learned anything, it's that I can stand tall and dressed well, and it will all be just fine in the end. I am, after all, my mother's daughter.

Previous Comments

ID

72194

Comment

I am touched by the "coming of age" of Natalie. I need to send this article to my youngest sister. She could use a good dose of being true to herself, including facing her imperfections and shortcomings. She claims she just finished Mississippi State but no one has seen a diploma. I could say more but I'm a rough and tough man who ain't 'spose to show feelings. God bless you. Good writing too.

Author

Ray Carter

Date

2006-05-10T16:58:58-06:00

ID

72195

Comment

Please, oh please, you rough and tough man, I'd like to hear more about your feelings. Feelings are good...especially when you're all vulnerable feeling and what-not about being so...ummm, transparent. I'm a little nervous about that. I should get over it, huh?! And thanks for the compliment. I hope to grow as a writer and your words are encouraging!

Author

nacollier

Date

2006-05-10T22:03:44-06:00