“I used to think it was him having another family, but after Harry was born I realized it was him not being around. I could never imagine leaving my kids, even if Sara and I decided to divorce. I just don’t understand it, and I still feel the collateral damage to this day.”
“Collateral damage?”
“My mother was never the same after he left, and I’ve always felt there was a correlation.”
She smiles. It’s a warm one, giving me a sense of validation that I’ve never felt before. “You’re a deep thinker Miles. Most people wouldn’t dare connect the two. Do you feel like him starting a new family gave you an inferiority complex?”
“Probably. I mean, I was disregarded but knew he’s being a father to someone else. So, he clearly knows what he’s supposed to do as a man. It makes me wonder if something is wrong with me. Like, why are they worthy of love and I’m not?”
“Ok, let’s switch gears. Your father leaves and starts a new family; most kids would develop an unbreakable bond with their mother. Yours is a little more complicated than that. Why?”
I ponder her question for a moment before I answer, “After he left, I feel like her drinking turned her into someone else.”
“Be more specific.”
“Jesus, alright,” I say. My thoughts are processing rapidly, and my mouth struggling to keep up. “Imagine your father leaves and, instead of telling you everything would be ok, your mother turns to the bottle. You watch men parade through your home, and when she’s drunk, she tells you that you’re the reason he left and that you were supposed to be aborted.”
“That must be h—”
“I’m not finished. You wanted a buy in? Well, I’m pushing my chips to the middle of the table.” She sits up, her old chair creaking into position.
“She became my roommate instead of my mother. She went looking for love and gave it everywhere else but at home.”
“Sounds like she might have Borderline Personality Disorder.”
“Yeah, bordering on the line of ass and hole.”
“Have you ever told her how you ffeel?”
“Sure,” I say, the sarcasm dripping. “Hey mom, I know you’ve been handed a shit hand, but maybe channeling that energy into being a shit mom isn’t an effective coping method.”
“I know it would be a hard conversation to have, believe me,” she says, and for a second I think I’m gonna get a personal revelation. “But, didn’t you even try?”
“Everything I love, I lose. I thought if I pushed her, she’d leave me too. Somewhere along the way, I became comfortable with who she was, and that was better than not having her in my life at all.”
Dr. Felt gets out of the chair and begins pacing slowly around the room. I can see why she’s so good in her field. She pushes, but not forcefully; she understands, but sees through bullshit. It’s like watching Jordan in ‘98, or a young Tiger Woods. Some people are just born to do a certain job, and watching a master ply their craft is inspiring—even if you’re what they’re plying.
“Your mother is a woman that—let’s say—hasn’t experienced a lot of love in her life.”
“You could say that.”
I don’t like where this is going. She’s not taking sides, but it sounds like I’m gonna be looking at this from a different point of view. You normally see this in Law and Order; a lawyer starts with a vague line of questioning, leading a witness into a trap.
“So, we have this woman, a new mom, left with a child by herself. Why do you think she blamed you for everything?”
“Because she’s a narcissist.”
“Did you ever consider that maybe she developed an inferiority complex as well? She expected to have her partner stay with her forever. But, like you, she watched him become that partner to someone else.”
I’m convinced that if Dr. Felt spent five minutes with my mother, she’d change her tune about the sympathetic figure she’s has created.
“So, I’m supposed to ignore the planned abortion and years of emotional neglect?”
“I’m not saying your mother is perfect, understand. But you also ignore the fact that she stayed. You ignore the fact that she raised you when most people would have given up. That’s love Miles. Now, it might not be the love you feel you deserved, but it’s love nonetheless.”
“I don’t hate my mother.”
“Never said you did. But, I think your father drove a wedge between you, and in your pain, you blamed each other instead of placing it where it should have been all along. Do you have a favorite memory of your mom?”
The question stuns me. For so long, I’d trained my mind to see my mother as the opposition. As I ponder this question, I wonder if my mom had really changed and I’d been too blind to see it. Damn this woman is good at her job—even if she’s a Duke fan.
“I have two of them. I had this field event at school in kindergarten. It’s where you play games outdoors and your parents come and cheer you on. She told me she wasn’t going to make it, but when I walked out of the building with my class, she was there. She was partly drunk, but she was there.”
“And the second memory?”
“She flew out for Harry’s birth, and the first time she held him she had this … look. I’d never seen it before, it’s hard to explain.”
“Try to explain it,” she says. It’s almost a whisper, and I realize she’s back in her seat, notepad in hand. She’s leaning forward in her chair, her face about a foot from mine. I imagine if someone were watching, it’d look like an animal activist approaching a tortured animal. The animal is wounded in a corner, untrusting of anything but its instincts; but this one person remains out of all the others, encouraging trust while helping rebuild a damaged psyche.
“She looked like she was validated, like this long journey she’d been on had paid off. I’d never seen anything like that from her. For a moment, it felt like I saw that version of her I knew before he left.”
“It was love Miles,” she says. “I guarantee she looked at you the same way, even if she didn’t know how to show it. People are complex and the alcohol definitely clouded things, but she sounds like a good woman that’s had a hard time reconciling her life.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“Exactly. We all have a need for love, to know that we matter.”
“I’ve tried to show her that, but at some point I didn’t care anymore.”
“Well, I think you’re at a place where you can try again.” Dr. Felt picks up her notepad and starts writing again. “At some point, you’ll have a conversation with her, but I want you to try something. Next time you call her, I want you to give her all the love you can and ignore your natural reaction of trading barbs. Just listen.”
“You gotta be shitting me.”
“Not at all, I think over time you’ll find that woman you remember.”
“I have a better chance of finding Jimmy Hoffa alive with a maxed out 401k.”
She gets up from her seat and heads to the door, signaling that our session is over. We share a hug because, after all that, it just feels right.