The Dark
I am 13 years old. Dirty blonde, wavy hair that never seems to lay just right, braces cemented to what will eventually be straight teeth, a young teen’s attempt at mascara and eyeshadow and blush on my flushed face. I don’t remember how I arrived home from school that day. I only recall that I barely make it through the back door before crumpling in a weepy mess at our hideous, sickly beige, faux-marble dining room table with cheap metal trimming tacked to the perimeter. It is the ugliest table I have ever seen.
My mother sits down next to me, eyes questioning. She is very compassionate and warm toward her children when she deems the issue a worthy cause, and I am counting on that response today. But her sympathy can also propel her forward on an interminable warpath, not to be assuaged by reason and logical explanations.
Her emotions cycle their way through an erratic and unpredictable bevy of potential responses, the worst of which is her anger.
“Did someone hurt you?!” she will cry indignantly. “What did they do?!” She takes my outbursts at face value and has been known to immediately call an alleged perpetrator or their mother to demand an apology, much to my dismay. But wait, I have thought helplessly. What if I just wanted you to listen?
To be clear, this day, sitting at this god-awful table, happens to be one of her angry days—not the level-headed questioning and gentle reassurance I need so badly right now. Unadulterated, unfiltered, unhinged anger. It is inconvenient at best, terrifying and vicious at its very worst.
In hindsight, I should have kept my teenage angst to myself. But like a moth to a flame, I haven’t yet learned that I am better off in the dark.
***
The morning light reaches its long, quiet fingers through our large front window, peacefully filling the living room with warm sun. I am settled in on the couch with a blanket over my lap, hot coffee in one hand, an Elsa figurine in the other. My daughter sits on the rug, surrounded by her other Frozen toys as we reenact a scene from her favorite movie.
Abruptly, she puts her toys down and looks at me. “Mommy, remember how you were mad at naptime yesterday?”
“Yes, I remember,” I say softly. “I got pretty upset and had to apologize, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, because I wasn’t listening.”
“Well, it’s true that you weren’t listening. But I didn’t need to get so upset. I could have been calmer. So it wasn’t your fault that I was upset—I am always responsible for my own feelings, just like your feelings belong to you.”
My four-year-old frowns and nods slowly, trying to process what I’m saying.
***
After my mother’s third demand for me to tell her what is wrong, I finally sputter out the words, “I told Kaylie I have a crush on Paul, and then she went up to him at lunch and told him I like him. Everyone in the cafeteria was staring at me!” I sob before dramatically throwing my forehead onto my hands on top of the table. I had spent the entire afternoon in sixth and seventh periods counting down the minutes until I could come home and tell my mom what had happened. I continue weeping and wait for a reassuring pat, a soft “aww,” or even one of her infamous rants about how unfair the world is.
“No,” comes a low rumble. I jerk my head up from the table. “No!” she repeats, a note of hysteria creeping into her voice, her eyes suddenly dark. Oh no, I think, dread beginning to pound a familiar cadence behind my eyes. I did it again.
I thought maybe, just maybe, today would be the day she would surprise me. I hoped she might try to calm her exacting sympathy and her frenzied anger, and just be my mom. I thought she might actually hear me.
Instead, she draws herself up tall at the sickly beige table that now matches the color of her face, and pronounces with an air of unrelenting finality, “We are not doing this. Who do you think you are, young lady? You are not old enough for boys and crushes.” She practically spits out the words, disgust making her lips quiver and curl.
She pushes her chair back forcefully, knocking it over in the process, and stands. I have seen her this angry many times before, but this particular variety of wrath is usually reserved for my drunk father, my fierce and courageous sister, or an offending cupboard whose corner dared to meet her forehead. I am so disappointed in myself for bringing her to this point, but I know it is too late now. I hang my head, and try to disappear into myself.
She stomps the few steps from the dining room to her bedroom and slams the door. I watch her as she goes, willing her to turn around, to look at me, to do anything to salvage the moment.
But she never does.
***
It was one of the worst days we had experienced to-date during quarantine. Between virtual meetings for work, trying to manage a house project that involved a challenging neighbor, and worrying about my husband at the hospital potentially caring for COVID patients, I felt overwhelmed and frazzled. There had been lots of screen time and not enough moments of connection. I knew that I was pushing her too far. Naptime was going to be my one break in an endless day of juggling, and I was relying on it. Desperate for it.
Then she decided she wasn’t tired.
“I will NOT go to sleep,” she yells from behind her closed door. We are already an hour into the skirmish. Words and tempers have been flaring. We are both exhausted and defeated.
“Yes, you WILL,” I say back from the other room, matching her volume. “You do not have a choice. You will sleep.”
She opens the door and angrily throws a stuffed animal in my direction. “I hate you!” The words come out of her mouth hesitantly, like she is trying a new food, deciding if she likes the taste or not. She slams the door, disappearing into the darkness of her room.
My eyes widen and I soften immediately, swallowing my prepared tirade. Hearing “hate” directed at me from my child is a first, and it stings. Badly.
***
My teenage drama forgotten, I run to my own room and crawl under the covers of my bed. The house is eerily quiet now, and I do my best to conceal the sound of my sobs, burying my face deep into a pillow. Both the pillow and my face will be stained with cheap mascara later, but I don’t have the capacity to worry about that right now.
But did you know that a young girl does have the capacity to feel and carry the brokenness of a grown woman? Did you know she can bear that impossible weight for years before realizing that it was never hers to hold?
I know, in the dark silence of my room, that this is not about me, or Kaylie, or Paul anymore. It is not about adolescent embarrassment and learning how to work through conflict with my peers in a healthy way. It is most certainly not about my first crush. And it’s not even about my desire to have my heart held gently by my mom.
For my mother, it is about the pain of a past she has allowed to dictate her present and my future. It is about untended mental health. It is about the boundaries she has built around my life, with fences so high and unforgiving that no child could possibly remain within their walls. It is about the authority she has granted herself as my mother—to be the final word, the only possible explanation, the judge and the jury, even when her edicts directly conflict with what matters most to me.
For now, I only have that feeling of dread continuing to make my head ache and throb, a misery I know will remain until I prostrate myself before her to atone for what I have done.
***
I walk slowly to my daughter’s room and sit on the edge of her bed where she lays facing the wall.
I take a deep breath before I begin. “I know you’re really upset with me, and I know today has been hard,” I say softly. She turns over to face me, the half-darkness casting shadows around us, shielding our faces slightly from each other.
“I understand that these days are tough when I have to work from home, and you feel bored and lonely,” I continue. She nods her head. “And I can understand why you would feel really frustrated with me right now. You’re allowed to feel frustrated.”
She begins to cry, hiding her face in her little hands. “I don’t hate you, Mama.”
I stroke her blonde curls, fighting back my own tears. “I know you don’t, baby. Sometimes we say things we don’t mean when we’re angry. We can talk more about that later, after you’ve had some rest.”
“I’ll go to sleep now,” she sniffs.
I tuck her in under her blanket, kiss her forehead, whisper I love you, and leave the room before she can change her mind.
***
I walk slowly to my mom’s room and sit on the edge of her bed where she lays facing the wall. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. She asks me quietly, darkly, “What are you sorry for?” I tell her I’m sorry for liking a boy.
Silence. Wrong answer.
I say I’m sorry for not asking her if I could like a boy.
More silence. Wrong answer.
I tell her I’m sorry for disrespecting her, and I don’t know what I was thinking. I should have known better. It won’t happen again. Please, please forgive me. She sits up, turns around, finally looks at me with compassion, and hugs me.
The dread is gone, but that impossible weight—the one that should never have been mine to carry—remains. I am once again a balm to her unhealed wounds.
But before all of that—before I tentatively cross the living room and lightly knock on her door to begin that soul-crushing exchange—I sit up in bed, take a deep, shaky breath, and make a profound realization.
I would rather stay here in the dark than discover there is no light to be found.
***
The morning light has shifted slightly, creating a halo-like glow on my daughter’s curls. She picks up a Frozen toy to begin playing again, but I can tell she’s still thinking about our conversation. I move down to the floor to be closer to her.
“I’m sorry I said ‘hate,’” she whispers sadly.
“Thank you for saying that. I know you were really upset, and I forgive you completely. Will you forgive me for getting mad and raising my voice?”
She nods slowly and scoots in close to me. She wraps her arms around me, as far as she can reach, burying her head in my chest. She has never hugged me so hard.
She pulls away to look up into my face. “Mom, I love you even when I’m mad, even though we had a sad naptime yesterday.” Her voice is confident, clear, direct.
I try my hardest not to cry and reply, “I love you no matter what.”
My daughter smiles brightly at me and I smile back. The sun is moving higher into the sky now, slowly fading from our view out the window. But I know it will be there again tomorrow morning, and the next day after that, bringing light into each new day.
I think my daughter knows it too.
Guest essay written by an anonymous author.
Photo by Lottie Caiella.