Guest Blogger – The Devil’s in the DNA: Chapter Three – Code 12
So now you know a little about my mother and father. You tell me, do I have reason to panic about my ability to be a good enough mother to a socially incompetent, addiction-prone, personality disordered, feverishly demented spawn? I can only hope that my husband’s genes can kick my gene’s ass and get a foothold on more that 50% of our child’s DNA. Again, shit in one hand…
I’m a scientist. Not a “hard” scientist, but nonetheless a scientist. I like to have proof. Whether or not I’m looking at the correct proof and interpreting it correctly is a whole different story. Guess where I get that? My mother. Now, my mother actually IS a scientist, but she has absolutely no capacity whatsoever to process information correctly. It’s like she has some sort of wiring problem in her brain that literally makes stuff up. Generates its own reality. As proof I offer you the “Eeee-quator” story:
My mom came to visit me shortly after I moved to San Diego. When I say shortly after, I mean a few days after my boyfriend at the time and I had unpacked the U-Haul. We take her around and we all visit the sights of that beautiful city. My mother complained incessantly about the sun. “Why is the sun so bright?” “My eyes are watering from the sun.” “I can’t see the ocean because the sun is too bright.” We buy her a big-rimmed hat and some old lady sunglasses. You know the ones that are about a foot wide and have the additional protection on the top, bottom, and sides of the frames? Those bad boys. Finally she stops bitching. A few days pass. My boyfriend was driving, I’m in the front seat and my mom is in the back sitting quietly in her floppy hat and shades. It’s a lovely, silent drive we are taking. My mother tends to talk non-stop so my boyfriend and I were soaking up the silence. Then my mother says, “I know why the sun is so bright here.” I blink a few times and hesitate slightly as I tend to do when my mother says that she has figured something out with her steel-trap scientific mind. “Oh,” I ask, “Why, then?” She takes a moment to add weight to this momentous occasion of brilliant revelation, as if we too had been mulling over this conundrum for the past few days. “Because San Diego is so much closer to the equator than Dallas is.” But she said equator like Eeee-quator. My boyfriend and I shoot a look to her in the rearview mirror and then sideways glance at each other. We are trying hard not to laugh. “Ummmm,” starts my boyfriend “I don’t know if that’s actually the case.” My mother lifted her chin in defiance. “It has to be,” she stated with finality. “That’s the only explanation I can come up with.” I see that my boyfriend is about to respond and I reach over and clamped my hand tightly to his thigh. This move I had perfected over the years we had been with each other when I could tell he was going to try logic and/or reason with my mother. The grip says, “Please. You’re only hurting yourself with this. Let it go. Take a breath and let it go.” We get back to the house and my boyfriend and I practically run each other over in a mad dash to Google the latitudes of Dallas and San Diego. We are both giggling like schoolgirls as we whisper out of the corner of our mouths at how bizarre my mother is. Dallas: 32.78. San Diego: 32.715. Dallas is closer to the Eeee-quator, barely, but it’s closer. At this point we lost our shit doubling over with laughter and snorts. Never told my mother, though. It wouldn’t make a lick of difference.
I am stuck looking at the “proof” that I am going to totally screw my children. I can see myself pulling an Eeee-quator or teaching them an inappropriate joke because I was drunk at the time and they arsh juzt sho schtinkin ador-hic-abluh when they schay fukehrphashter!! I’m doomed. Doomed! I am a crossbreed of these two mammals!
The closer my first doctor visit gets the more insane I become. I just got this picture in my head of me throwing these chunks of memory at my friends and family as I screamed and wailed like a banshee that they couldn’t let me go through with this because I’m so horrible and would they just look at all of this proof I’m showing them. LOOK AT THE BOOOONNNES!!! Great. I’m a chimp flinging poo.
Calling all defense mechanisms, calling all defense! Code 12!!! She’s gaining insight into her behaviors!! We’ve been breached!!!!! Get the booze!! Damnit, she has to work! What else do we have?! Humor! Quick!! Have her make a blog!! BLOOOOOOOOOOOOG!!!
I’m going to come clean for just a little bit, but then I need to go back under the covers, okay?
Do you have any idea how much I edit what I write? After I wrote the original blog on both my mom and dad I was just…I couldn’t post that. I just couldn’t. I read them and I thought, “Man. That is so sad. That’s just awful. I don’t want to put that out there.” Another one I thought about a lot was, “Oh no. I’m too angry. I can’t say it like that. I can’t write that.” What am I doing? I had originally bought a journal to write in about my thoughts about what was going on. That was just a stupid idea. I hate to write. I can’t spell and my brain goes faster than my hands and my hands shake and my handwriting is terrible anyway and pretty soon I am just being so hard on myself I haven’t even crossed the room to pick up the journal before I’ve talked myself out of it. So then I thought I could still journal, but I would just do it on the computer. I can type very well and I can keep up with my brain and Word has my saving grace of spell checking. As soon as I thought about that I then immediately thought, hey I’ll start a blog! That will be fun. I can make it fun!
Fun? What I’m going through is fun? The anxiety? The fear, anger, and self-loathing is fun? Man, am I good at deluding myself. Holy hell, are my defenses powerful. My original intention was to journal my actual thoughts and emotions and I can’t even let myself have that? What is wrong with me? Why can’t I be honest about all of this? I wasn’t even going to tell anyone about this blog and what did I do today? I told people. If I’m honest with myself I know exactly why I did that. I wanted better excuses to cover up what I actually feel. If I have friends reading this I don’t want them to worry about me, or see how weak I am feeling, or to know how I actually think and feel about myself. I would edit myself to protect my friends. Lie for them. Turn myself into a freak-show to make them laugh so that I could feel better. I’m using you. God, I’m such a … bad person. I really feel like a bad, unworthy person. Do you know how badly I am fighting writing an uber-edited version of the meltdown I had with my husband the other day? Well, I’m going to come clean. I had had five glasses of wine. FIVE! Suddenly everything I saw on the television made me think of love. Of family. Of babies. Of friends. And my husband is just sitting there. Such a wonderful man. And my love for him, and the fear of not being able to have a child with him, disappointing him…it all came swelling up. I was so scared. I felt so ashamed. I felt like I had duped him in some way into loving me because I could not possibly deserve him. And I actually believe that. I really do. And it all came out. In a horrible, drunken, shivering moment in time I was being truthful. As drunk as I was, I was actually telling the truth and spilling out my feelings for the first time in a long time.
Crap. I’m done. Hubby just sent me an instant message telling me that I should write a book, and that I am an awesome writer and that he loves the way I write. I felt all walls of defenses lock back into place. Back into the box with me.
But I’m going to make a promise to myself. I’m going to post this tomorrow as is. No editing. I’m nauseous just thinking about it, but I’m going to do it. And I can’t stop me.
This blog was written by the oh so talented Miss Emily.
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