When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a mom. I wanted to be a doctor. I wanted to be a teacher. I was brought up in a world where it was good to help people. Somewhere along the line, however, I received the message that I could help people. No, more than help people, I could fix them. I'll resist all the specifics, but I wanted to fix my mom. And my mom needed to be fixed, she really did. Mom told me her problems and I would try to fix them:
I can't take this anymore! I'm just going to pack my bags and disappear one day!
Mommy, please don't! We'll be good. I promise!
Your father's late again and dinner's ruined!
Mom, let's just eat. He hasn't been on time for weeks. Why do you keep putting yourself through this?
I sit here day after day. It's the weekend. I want to do something, and your father's nowhere to be found!
Mom, you have a car. Just go enjoy yourself. You always said you wanted to volunteer someplace...
And on and on. I bought her a microwave. I bought her the ring and the coat and the television and all the tchotchkes she wanted. I got her a dog. I took her places. I encouraged her. I entertained her day after day at the expense of my responsibilities. Again and again I attempted to fix her. Again and again she continued, making no changes of her own. Fast forward almost forty years, Mom still isn't fixed. In fact, she's worse off now than she ever was. And I am exhausted. It took a couple fisticuffs with my own demons before I could see it: I have been trying to fix her.
The rage and impatience I feel as her brain will not allow her to do basic tasks are because I want her fixed. The annoyance that never seems to go away is there because I've been fighting for so long and her needs simply refuse to disappear. I long for a relationship with my mother in which she is there for me, rather than the other way around, rather than the way it has been since I was a child. I wanted a mother who would teach me to be strong, not require my strength for her own survival. I wanted a mother who would impart wisdom to me, not dump her bitterness and foolishness on me. I wanted a mother who would leave me with a heritage --if not a godly one, then at least, a feminine one-- not use me to fill her emptiness. I want that mother who, though she may not be perfect, brings something to the table besides depression and neurosis.
I want my mother fixed.
And I've tried with all my might.
And it's broken me.
But that's such a good thing! I can't fix her. I never could. My attempts to fix her were the habits of triangulation and dysfunction and co-dependence that I developed so long ago. My complete burnout was the consequence of a human being --even one with good motives-- trying to do work God never gave her to do. Be kind, yes. Decide the efficacy of that kindness, no. Love unconditionally, yes. Expect results, no. Help and encourage, yes. Become angry when things don't turn out as planned, absolutely not.
God is working in this season. I need to be fixed as well.
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