Every time I try to work up a post explaining the conversation Mother Madame and I had three nights ago, I stop writing midway through because I just don’t want to think about it.
Here’s what I found out from the conversation, in a nutshell. She thinks I’m ‘too weak’ to handle the fifteen years of schooling required to get a doctorate, that med school is too competitive and forensic psychiatry is ‘too dark’ for someone like me. She said that within three weeks of going to college out-of-state I’m going to call her up and beg her to let me move with them to California, and it’s ‘downright stupid’ to decide to end up with that much debt when I could just go to a community college in Fresno, live at home, and become a fashion designer.
Most of the time I can argue with her and keep my wits about me, because I have a hold on what I should say and what I’ll regret saying later, and I know the power of a calm and quiet voice in the face of anger. The thing is, it’s a bit of a different story when I’m furious.
When I’m furious, it’s like two parts of my brain are at war. One part wants to yell until I’m blue in the face everything that I really think at that moment, and the other part is trying to shut the first part up and regain emotional control. The result is me sounding like a stuttering little kid. Like when I stopped myself from telling my mother to shut up during said argument:
Mother Madame: “Well, you know what, Hannah? I’m giving you a free pass this time because you’re just too young to know what you actually want-”
Me: “I just- you just- I don’t- I…want you to just…stop talking like that!”
I’m not happy that I know the truth, but I prefer it to not knowing. She explained that she doesn’t think I’m strong enough to get to where I want to go in life. I’ve been feeling her doubt for a while on some level or other, so it wasn’t too much of a shock, and it wouldn’t be the first time in history that a daughter did something to disappoint her mother. It’s okay.
I admit that the worst buttons to push with me is to say that I’m incapable and that I’m lying. The last time I was that angry was when she told me a couple of years ago that she thought I was lying about having any anxiety problems and having an eating disorder (even when my brother told her that he heard me tossing up dinner several nights a week, she thought I was ‘just being dramatic’).
But, it’s okay. I know where I want to go (yep, I’ve finally decided,) and the last place on earth I’m going is Clovis, California.
Until I Write Again,