She once told me that my contribution to an album was the only part that she didn't like.
In the 1980s my mother, Cathie, bore two children––me and my brother, Sam. And while she had a fleeting affinity for us, her most beloved son was Bacon, a 75-pound German Shepard. I never understood why she gave him that name. He was nothing like his namesake, the streaky, salty, oh-so-yummy breakfast food. But Cathie was never one to make a great deal of sense.
As a wee lad, Cathie would frequently turn to me and say,"I hate my life." Don't we all, lady. Get in line. But even as a child, I was certain this confused interaction was not normal discourse between mother and son. My friends' moms were mostly bubbly and sweet, giving healthy smatterings of hugs and"I love you"s. Cathie never uttered those words. And a motherly embrace? Any time I tried hugging my mom, I would be met with literal, physical rejection. Disgust.
It's embarrassing, shameful even, not to be able to let go of these things. I'm a grown man. I have a wonderful wife. I have two beautiful children. The band I started as a teenager became my career. I play guitar for a living, and I often get to do that in front of thousands of people. What I am saying is, I've got it better than good. So, I should be able to suck it up, buck it up and move on. And yet, I cannot.
Four years prior, when I was 15, she allowed me to traverse on a dangerous punk rock jaunt across the country in a broken-down cargo van with four strange 20-something men. We never knew where we would lay our heads at night to rest. We were regularly accosted with threats of violence. But the highlight for me was seeing Times Square in the late '90s, when it was still sex shops and junkies. There were boobs everywhere! This was beyond inappropriate for a young teenager.
To make matters more sinister, we discovered this trainer had a history; she had killed multiple dogs through her years of"service" and got away with it all. We even tried to track her down, to press charges, but she made it her mission to vanish. Of course, I still loved and craved Cathie's validation. But by this time, we rarely spoke. And when we did, she made sure to tell me things like,"You look terrible," when she would see my photo in, or that my contribution to an album was the only part of that album she didn't like. Apparently, this was her idea of"jokes,""jibes," good old-fashioned mother-son ribbing. They were not jokes to me. They just caused irreparable pain.
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