Poem About My Mother
Poem About My Mother
The Achilles’ heel in my self-esteem.
The wound that won’t heal.
Throughout my life, I had my theories
about what was wrong with this woman,
what was wrong with me.
It was a sexist society.
She felt confined by her role.
Arbitrary gender roles.
Dad should have been a kindergarten teacher.
Mom should have been a CEO.
Of course she took her frustration out on her children.
Of course she was always yelling, screaming,
throwing things, including me.
It’s the patriarchy. It’s the 1970s.
It’s not her fault.
Her rage doesn’t mean she doesn’t love me.
Or at least that’s what my Dad told me.
Maybe she’s bipolar. That would explain it.
Me and my grandmother too.
Flights of fancy, creativity, shopping sprees,
then unable to keep up with the housework,
or get out of bed, or cook a meal.
It’s not her fault. She should be on medication.
My parents don’t believe in psychiatry,
or maybe they don’t want to see there’s a problem
beyond the ordinary.
It’s stress. I should help out more with the housework.
I should be better. If only I would be a good girl.
I’m trying so hard to be a good girl.
“What am I going to do with you?
Why can’t you be normal?
I don’t see how anyone can be so stupid and live.”
She would say to me.
Was it borderline or narcissistic personality disorder?
What happened to her to make her that way?
My ex-husband, whom she liked, would say to me,
“It’s not your job to make excuses for other people.”
And, “Your mother is like a hurt tiger in a cage.
You may feel bad that the tiger is hurting.
You may be the only one who can help the tiger.
But if you unlock the cage and go in there with the tiger,
the tiger is going to kill you and eat you.”
Original artwork in image by Isobel Harmon.