Scars

It’s October of 2023. I’ve just moved out of my apartment, thrown all of my earthly belongings into a storage POD, as I get ready to spend three months in the south of France at a monastic co-living hub. I’m seeking refuge from a life that that is collapsing beneath the weight of a startup job that promised heaven, then delivered hell. In the meantime, I spend two liminal weeks with my mom before flying off to Bergerac. I’m laying in bed, with my cat Swanson sitting peacefully on my lap. My mom comes bursting into the room to ask me something, and Swanson, a truly anxious little fella, sinks his hindclaws into my left arm, deep as they can go, and pushes off fiercely to seek his safety. The gash on my arm bled and bled. My mom didn’t seem to think it was a big deal. Cats scratch sometimes. Get over it. But this particular wound doesn’t heal properly for nearly a year. I still carry a sizable scar, and likely will the rest of my life.

I’ve spent the last few entries in this series excavating and releasing stories of the wounds my mother inflicted on me in recent years. I feel pretty uncomfortable about doing this in a semi-public space, but it’s felt freeing to articulate these moments, to digest them, to move them from my body and mind, where they’ve been rattling around causing mayhem for two years, and let them settle on the page instead. It feels like an essential part of the process of moving on, growing up, and eventually, God willing, forgiving and mending. With that, I have two more painful anecdotes that have been living rent free in my psyche, begging to be released.

It’s now September of 2024. I’ve just returned from my trip to Alexandria to visit The Girl one last time. I’m sinking into depression, but know I need to figure out my money situation, and fast. I’ve spent my last cash getting out to visit her, and I know my mom is going to hound me about that decision, and wonder why I’m still so broke after a summer living in her house.

Over the span of a week, two writing clients that felt like a sure thing fell through. One even sends me a deposit for a project before changing his mind. I’m sinking further into depression, and can’t fathom doing more writing projects now. An idea pops into my mind that it would be really good for me, and help me make a bit of money, if I start walking dogs and dog sitting for people. I’ve always been great with animals, and Lord knows that getting outside in the sun, moving my body, and connecting with fluffy friends will be an effective anti-depressant.

I set up a profile on the Rover app, filling it out with attention and care, really taking my time. I dig up old photos of me with my ex-roommate’s dog, and share how I’ve worked with my mom at multiple vet clinics. I’m starting to feel good about this little endeavor. I’m taking concrete steps. My spirits are rising. The Rover profile says that a testimonial or two will go a long way for getting your first clients. I send it along to my mom, and ask her to be my first testimonial.

In my head and heart, I expect some semblance of validation, that she’ll be glad to see me taking initiative, doing something simple and humble, where I’ll get some exercise and make a bit of cash. Her response, via text, says that she doesn’t think I’m qualified to work with dogs. Maybe I could do it for free, she says, but I should not be charging anyone money for this. I am gutted when I read those messages. I am livid. She doesn’t believe her 33 year old son, able bodied, intelligent, good with animals, is qualified to be a part time dog walker? I give up on the plan that same day. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m not good enough. I am hurt and confused and paralyzed, and I start drowning those feelings with food.

A month later, in mid-October, my mother has returned from her travels. We’ve already been through the whole ordeal with the chips, which I wrote about yesterday, and now she’s breathing down my neck about money. I’m frantically applying for freelance writing jobs, and anything else I can find. But I’m not hearing anything. The money in my bank account is dwindling. Down to my last $500. Then $400. Tick tock.

My mom is well aware of these dire numbers, because my checking account is still the one she set up for me when I was a teenager. This whole time, she’s been able to see my balances. Track my transactions. She also knows I’m hurting deeply from the breakup, that I’m working my new recovery program, that I’m struggling to take care of myself through a season of depression. I’ve told her all of this. I’ve tried to be honest and vulnerable, to let her into my struggles. I want her to see me. I want her to love and care for me.

One morning, just as I’m back from one of my sunrise walks, she says “dude, it’s time you start paying rent. I expect $350 from you next week.” Just like that. No conversation. No heads up. Just a declaration of raw power, what’s yours is now mine, at a moment when she knew that I barely had that amount in my checking account. I don’t know what to say, so I just mumble “fine,” and walk away.

I don’t know why exactly, but this is the moment that hurt me the most in this whole saga. Maybe this is a naive belief, but I always thought home, and parents, were one of the few places in the world safe enough to fall apart, to have the space to hurt and heal and get back on your feet. And in that moment, I was drowning. Emotionally, financially, relationally, spiritually. My head was barely above water, gasping for each short breath before being torn back down by another wave of grief and shame. In a moment where I was crying out for grace, for compassion, for a life preserver to be thrown to me, my mother instead stood on the deck above, fully aware of my desperation and hurts, and chose to throw me a cinderblock.

And I know, in her mind, this was an act of tough love. An act of “I need to toughen this kid up.” But to me, in that moment, it felt nothing short of betrayal. It felt like the abdication of everything a mother should be in times of pain and despair. Where I desperately needed grace, I got the iron fist. Where I craved softness and compassion, I got her boot on my neck.

All of these moments have left scars. They dredged up the deepest wounds I carry—that I’m not enough, that I’m defective, that I can’t possibly be loved until I’m perfect. They validated something I long feared, which is that there is no safety or refuge for me in this world. There is no grace. If you can’t get it from your mother, then surely it’s not available anywhere else.

But like the gash on my arm, I can feel these wounds closing up, scabbing over, tender new layers of skin bubbling up from the miracle of my body. I’ve tried to force myself to forgive her over the past year, to put this whole affair out of my system. But I don’t think it works like that. Time heals all wounds. But it’s on God’s time, not mine. And I’ve discovered through my commitment to 12-step recovery that there are indeed spaces and relationships where I’m allowed to be imperfect, vulnerable, and to fall apart, and where I’ll be loved fully anyway.