Anyone who knows my past knows how tumultuous my relationship with my mother has been. I’ve struggled with her acceptance and love for years. I never felt as though I was the daughter she wanted. When I was in high school, I went through a phase where my personality and style didn’t match her ideals. I wore a lot of vintage, black, tightfitting shirts and baggy jeans. She wanted me to dress preppy. I skipped class, hung out with kids she didn’t trust, and my boyfriend smoked pot. In short, I was the opposite of what she had hoped for, but in my heart, though I looked like this rebellious teenager who didn’t give a shit, I cared.
I cared a lot.
Her disapproval stung, and now more than a decade later, it still hurts when she rejects me or doesn’t comment on something that matters to me like a well-thought-out outfit (as petty as that sounds) or a poem I wrote. I’ve grown used to it, but it still hurts.
Yesterday, after listening to her tales of who died and who got married, I told her about my writing. About my characters and my writing process. The way I picture the characters in my mind. Little trivial things but the things that mattered to me as an author.
And for the first time in my life, she was interested. Engaged. She actually asked questions about my writing. They were not much, but they were a starting point. I’m hoping to have a chance to talk to her in the future more about my writing.
But as a first step, I’m excited.