The mother-daughter relationship can sometimes appear to be extremely complicated when it is rather simple. After more than two decades of over-complicating sentences, over-analyzing words, and finding meanings underneath the surface which never existed and should never have been inferred, I have come to understand that the solution is a very simple one.
My mother and I are two entirely different people. For Math lovers out there, if we were two sets, we would not have a region of intersection at all, let alone be a subset of one another. The universal set would choose to leave the two of us outside its parameters! There are moments when family members and friends remind us our physical features are not all too different; that is exactly where the comparisons end. Put simply, if my mother went to college with me, the chances of us forming a friendship would be as low as getting to the seventh floor of the West building without having to climb at least one flight of stairs.
As a result of our different personalities and interests, there is little we can do which keeps us both interested. Hence, if we decide to do something together, one of us is always making a sacrifice rather than enjoying herself. We cannot even speak to each other; rather we are always speaking at each other because the other one is simply not interested or must feign interest to make sure the speaker is not disappointed by the lack of enthusiasm.
We do not even share the smallest of similarities such as the love of a particular color or the love of a particular food. We even read different genres. She loves horror stories and I abhor them with a passion, preferring to pick up sci-fi or mystery from the shelves instead. Yet, we live in the same home and we have to find ways to communicate. You would think that after two decades of practice, we would be more comfortable in each other’s company. Instead, we spend plenty of time taking sly digs at each other, pointing out what we hate about each other. That list, needless to say, is endless and grows every day.
Some folks who share the kind of relationship I share with my mother tend to tell me that, with age, both mother and daughter tend to outgrow such pettiness, preferring to be patient with each other. Whenever my mother and I find a certain level of comfort through hard work and patience, we tend to slip back into old habits within a few days and resort to name calling and digs.
I used to previously think such a relationship needed fixing but, in all truth, it does not. Because, while this relationship sounds extremely dysfunctional, this is how my mother and I function. There are times when we come together, times which are admittedly few and far between, and we cherish them. We pass many days in silence, barely speaking a word to each other.
One day, it simply dawned on me that this level of dysfunction is simply the way the two of us know how to communicate with each other. No matter what, this will not change. In fact, my greatest comfort lies in the fact that she is always there in a room at the end of the apartment in which I am not present. I know she is there. I know she is safe. And no matter how many grudges I hold against her and how many hurtful words she has uttered to me, she is alive and well.
Despite all the problems which even patience cannot fix, her mere presence makes me feel somewhat safe. And despite the millions of words unsaid between us, we are both there in case one needs the other. And sometimes, perhaps, this smallest bit of comfort is all that is needed to navigate such an explosive but necessary relationship.
