Like mother, like madness

Midnight, no time to be thinking. No time to lose myself in what everyone else wants from me, or what I think I should be doing. I should call her but my mind is holding my body back from what it wants, my mother’s love and embrace. I miss her so much that it makes my chest ache, it’s either that or the estrogen pills finally working, maybe both. My mother and I have always been stubborn when it came to making up and facing the fact the pros outway the cons when it came to us. I guess everyone expected us to iron everything out that night. That was obviously not the case since I left. It’s not like I wholeheartedly wanted to though. 

We might be the same, but there’s still something there to settle. A wrinkle in the cloth of our relationship. Other than her, I didn’t have anyone other than her. The people that held high expectations for me just put their two cents in without wanting to get involved. So, the only one whose opinion I really cared about was her. I feel like we both were too on edge, dealing with my aunt’s death and everything. It was a twisted kind of grief, one with mixed feelings. She played one of the biggest parts in making me and my mother get along, but not in the way you would think. If my mom was the only one there for me, my aunt was the opposite, aggressive, closed off, and filled with discrimination. She was the first person to tell me that I could never be a woman regardless of how hard I tried. 

My mom used to be like that, consumed by a conservative mindset, but it all changed when I came out and reeducated her, fortunately. Quite sad that I’m thankful to have a parent that doesn’t hate me because of my identity though. I’m glad I could help change her perspective though.

My mother blamed herself for what I had to go through, and I think it all just boiled over one night. We were fighting about nothing, like always, yelling about something that could disappear into thin air and hating ourselves for it. So, I left that same night. Right around the same time that it is right now. Early in the morning, before the sun touched most surfaces. It was cold, and I regret it. It was only supposed to be for one week, to calm down and regroup. I’ve been regrouping for about 3 months now, scared of dialing her number. Terrified of making more wrinkles in the cloth, but that’s the only way that we can figure out how to iron them out.

My mom was the one to teach me what a woman is and what a woman could be, breaking the restrictive boxes in my mind. I think we were both tired that night. Maybe we’re both scared to make it worse, I know I am. Stubbornness blooming from fear can be the worst kind. It festers and infects and kills sometimes, cutting and changing the state of everything forever. I don’t want it to go that far with this, don’t want this fear to consume what we had and still have. I know we still have it. We just have to. I let a shaky hand pick up my phone, slowly dialing my mother’s number.

After two short rings, she answered, and I could’ve sworn that she dropped her phone when I heard about ten thumps before hearing a frantic “hold on!” I listened and decided to wait until the commotion on the other side ceased.

“Yes? Hello? Is this Naomi?” I had missed the way my name roll off of her tongue. When she said it, it was full of purity and genuineness. It was fresh and wrapped in a bow, just for me. I missed this feeling of being called by my mother. I thought it would be gone forever, that I would have to learn to live without her love and support.

“Yes, mama, it’s me… how are you?” The warmth in the air evaporated, being replaced by a stale tension. What do we do now? We were at a place we never thought we would be, and what now? I don’t want to be around the bush, but things are still being held back. 

“I’m okay, managing, how are you?” Managing. I knew that feeling all too well. Dragging yourself and trying to convince your body that it’s living. Managing to make it through the hours, too exhausted to think about what’s next. It’s that managing mindset that got us here in this awkward start of a conversation because when you don’t think about what’s next, you stop planning for it. You stop feeling like you need to move on and keep going. The same thing over and over, and telling yourself that you’re doing just fine. Managing.

“I miss you… I need you, mom,” I was crying, and for the first time, it wasn’t heavy. It was the lightest feeling I have ever held in my body. It was the relief that I had admitted it, not only to her but to myself. I need my mother. 

“I miss you too, sweetheart. I’m so sorry, I need you too,” she was crying too. Two sobbing messes on either end, finally opening up after all of that silence. We need each other. 

A few months later, and I had returned home. We still found ourselves trying to speak through the stale air we had made, but things were getting better. I’m glad to be here with her again. To see and hear and hug her again. Because I need my mother and she needs me, and we had to face that first to move, not just manage, but grow, and let go of it all. All of the guilt and fear and weight we had carried for much too long. The wrinkles weren’t out yet, but the iron was finally hot.