Substitutes

As a young woman I attended church meetings because it was required of all people who lived in my home. I didn't mind. I didn't necessarily believe what was taught, nor did I think I belonged to "the only true church," but the people there were my neighbors and friends, so the experience was painless for the most part and even enjoyable some weeks. I had two Laurel advisers. One was incredibly astute. She often remarked that she felt I was thinking something and wished I would share it with the rest of the class. I believe if she knew what I was truly thinking (as I looked at a particularly beautiful friend in the room), she would have been grateful that I remained silent, smiling at my secret thoughts. She also mentioned more than once that I "march to the beat of a different drummer." That is, of course, still true today.

I'm thinking of this particular adviser because I remember how much I loved her, and I knew she loved me, too. I realize in retrospect that I was looking for a mother substitute in every woman I met. I wanted someone to love me, to hold me, to touch me without hurting me. For many years I refused to admit this because I was humiliated by the fact that my own mother had no desire to care for me, and I believed it was because something about me made it impossible to love me. I have since decided this is not true, but I am left with the residue of the former belief which occasionally haunts me.

My Laurel advisor treated me with warmth and kindness--always. She respected my boundaries which said, "Don't touch!!" but I believe, if we had had more time, she eventually would have breached the walls I put up around me, not because of any effort on her part, but because I loved her back, and I respected her more than any woman I had ever met. Her life was filled with sadness. She had seven children, three had died in infancy. But she didn't act as though she was tried more than other mothers. She made a book of remembrance for each child. The family often talked about the children who had died, and celebrated each birthday with joy. They were her children and she was certain that they were often with her and other members of the family. She radiated joy. She made me wish to be joyful.

As I entered my second year as a Laurel, my adviser and her family moved to a new location. I kept in touch with her almost desperately. I needed her. She made me feel that I could be strong, that I could be joyful no matter what happened to me in my life. The communication became more sporadic as time went on, but to this day has never ceased. At one point I thought about telling her all about me. I did confide that I had been raped by my cousin, and I believe she was aware of the abuse in my home. But when it came time to actually talk about that "different drum" with her, I opted not to do so. Suddenly it seemed unimportant, and she is very busy right now, living outside the United States, helping her husband with his work, consumed with family and grandchildren. When all is said and done, she is not my mother, regardless of how much I would have liked her to be.

I sometimes wonder if I'll ever stop searching for someone to fill the void I'm left with. I truly thought that when I spoke of it with my mom, she would let me know that I had been wrong all my life, that she loved and adored me, and was so glad to have me as her daughter... It didn't happen. I know she loves me. I know she's glad I'm her friend. I understand that she feels no maternal connection to me.

The past couple of weeks have been fairly calm as I accept all this. But I wonder if I'll always be searching for that which I cannot have. I wonder if I'll always wish for the physical contact I rarely received. I wonder how long I will feel inadequate.

In the past three months I have worked through the anger. I no longer feel envious when my sisters are hugged by her spontaneously. I understand all the reasons why I am not a part of that. But I wish it were otherwise...and then I wish I didn't long for a share of that love...

Don't worry, I'm almost finished feeling sorry for myself. The words are almost finished, and I think that one day I won't cry about this again.