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Although I possess just about every signpost of someone who was molested as a child — promiscuity, bisexuality, life-of-the-party-ness, binge-drinking, an extreme weight (extremely low in my case), sadomasochism, insomnia, suicidal longing and repulsion whenever someone touches me outside of the sex act — my mother and father never exactly molested me. Few things in life are exactly something or not something.
I have written many times about what my father semi-did, but I've never said a peep about my mom. Maybe that's because her transgression was even more inexact than was my father's. To this day I'm not sure how to place her. When I was fifteen, I went to live with my father across the country; at sixteen, I moved in with a friend's family. I didn't have particularly deep contact with my mother from then until she died when I was twenty-seven, so I know her mainly through distorted, crust-covered, childish memories. I guess I really don't know her at all.
Naked somersaults
Donna was almost two. I had just given her a bath when her mother, Krystal, came home. Donna threw off her towel and I chased after her, waving Scooby pajamas threateningly, but she just laughed and did naked celebratory somersaults. My mother came to pick me up, took a sip of the ginger ale Krystal handed her and said, "I can see why child molesters are attracted."
Krystal's head jerked up and her mouth fell open, but my mother didn't notice. Her eyes were fixed on Donna, on whom I'd finally managed to get a Scooby top but no bottoms. My mother continued as if in a trance: "She's so innocent and puffy and . . . " — she struggled for the word — "white." A former English teacher, she deliberated over word choice. "No, it's that it's neat down there. Compact. Like a little hot-dog bun."
Judging from Krystal's blanched face, I understood that my mother had said something freakish. But how so? My own light command over my limbs and gravity, my health, my childish joy at being alive (I was ten), had always induced in my mother the same too-intense admiration as had Donna's somersaults and giggles. I'd shake my bum on command, and my mother would chase me with her fingers out, shrieking, "Pinchee bum! Pinchee bum!" Though we were poor, she found money for lessons: I was in dance; I was a cheerleader. My mother always watched. If eyeballs had lips, she'd be licking hers. My mother became celibate at thirty for a variety of reasons — poor health, and no one
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My mother did not belong in this world.
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asking, mainly. So sex for her was purely theoretical, and I guess if sex is theoretical, a toddler is sexy, a ten year old is hot.
Krystal shoved some money into my hands, ushered my mother and me out, and from then on was busy whenever I called. I loved Donna. I used to watch her for free sometimes, pretend that she was mine. But after that day, I never saw her again.
Closer
My mother did not belong in this world. She was a disappointment to her own mother, a German immigrant who was efficient, economical, accomplished. Her baby hair kinked; she did not achieve her milestones in the proper order. The only time my grandmother paid my mother any attention was when she got sick. So she got sick a lot. In school, my mother excelled in the mushy language of French, while her brother mastered the tougher German — along with sports, girls, being good-looking and getting voted student-council president.
As a young woman, my mother was already pot-bellied, saggy-breasted, bony-kneed, eyeglassed and pockmarked. She picked her nose, scratched her head until her fingernails were lined with dandruff. Despite all this, she was coquettish, fluttering a bony hand over her mouth as she laughed and laughed at the unfunny jokes of carnies, mechanics, my grandfather, my friends. In many ways, my mother acted like a small child: she was often naked; she didn't understand peoples' motivations for what they did and in her bewilderment would make things up; she had temper tantrums that would switch swiftly to a coy, sunny mood, then back again.
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Commentarium (35 Comments)
that essay was at the same time painful and wonderful to read. i admire your honesty and clearness.
Jesus H. Tap-Dancing Christ. That has to be the most honest and self-aware description of a childhood that I've ever read. Your essay is amazing not only because you were able to dissect and examine the blinding whirlwind of conflicting emotions you experienced, but because you're brave enough to lay it all out there. My partner and I both lived through damaging childhoods and being able to read about yours is truly cathartic. Thank you, Lisa.
Just want to say that I found your essay deeply moving. You are so honest at some points I almost cried. While a lot of what you had to say was very dark, ultimately it was the most uplifting thing I have read in a long time.
Even though your childhood conditioned you to think that all relationships are inherently power games, you decided to **choose** to make yourself vulnerable with your daughter. From my own life experience I know how hard that can be. That is just so noble of you, I wish I could tell you in person. I wish I could shake your hand.
And when from time to time your daughter shows you love without any veiled threats or bargaining, I bet it feels good. That is the feeling of **real love**.
Reading something like this really gives me a sense of hope for the world. I can't help but feel huge goodwill toward you Lisa, as well as confidence that your emotional life will grow richer over time.
My best wishes to you and your family,
Tim
Thank you!
Wow. Another amazing piece from an incredible writer. Sorry
you were tortured as a child, Lisa. But it must have something to do with the power of your talent. Writing that is always able to surprise me. This is why I keep returning to this site. Writing like this makes the internet seem to have a real purpose in the universe.
Wow. Great essay. Great writing.
Wow. Just, wow.
I have admired your work from time to time; now I can see how much work you have done and how far you have come. You had excellent and wise guidance and have arrived at a special place.
I am proud of you and happy for you.
This is one of the best pieces of writing I've read on Nerve. The honesty and insight betrays that you are not as "ruined" as you may feel.
yes, all that. but also - as a piece of writing, the piece holds together very well, presses what a narrative is; all the content aside (if that's possible) it's a brave piece of writing in and of itself.
esp. the last bit about the gift you give to your daughter, i connected with that so much. so good. thank you.
Lisa, thanks for this, for your clarity.
Beautiful, beautiful work. Thank you.
i am amazed at the clarity and insight you bring to your own motherhood. you should really be proud of yourself: giving your children your unconditional love while respecting their individuality is one of the hardest things for a parent to do.
the words you use and the images you create are potent.
Thank you. You've explained what I've rarely been able to even begin putting into words. All I'm capable of is writing moments, putting examples on paper and then throwing them away so she doesn't find them. If I try to explain what it's like, people think I'm whiny and ungrateful. "Oh, your mother loves you, how horrible." What you've written... well, I wish I could be so eloquent. Just, thanks.
What a spectacular thing to read. I'm sad and happy for you, and thankful for reading this.
Excellent reading, Lisa.
carver, i like you.
bozulich
I really loved that story. I am as fucked up as you are and you make it seem ok. Thanks
Lisa Carver is one of a handful of great young writers that have distinguished Nerve as groundbreakingly honest publication. This essay, in my opinion, is up there with Lying with My Father among her best pieces ever. Hats off.
Really beautiful. Amazing.
This essay is amazing. Your writing, your honesty, your courage, and your incredible compassion. You could have turned out a lot differently. I admire you past words, Lisa.
You've earned every superlative; how long this must have taken you to see, then to write!
I have long considered myself sort of a "word" person, but I find none equal to the task of thanking you. We all have damages; you not only expressed yours clearly and cleanly, but your transcendence (sp?) of that damage as well... as a paraphrase, the damage stopped with you; you did not pass it on. A comfort to me, enduring a similar - and, hopefully, as well-won - battle.
Good luck. You're doing great.
I felt your pain. Your writing moved me. This is the first work of yours I have read. I will be looking for more. I think we are sisters. If you ever need 2-D visiul poetry, for a book cover, drop me a note. I have more than enough art work to share. LKBELDON@hotmail.com
Thanks for reminding me.
As my youngest child enters his post- ketchup- incident phase (surliness and phoenix-rebellion happen; the condiment may vary) ytou have recalled to me the single most redeeming factor of what seems the debacle of my single parenting career; my children do not *have to* love me. Though I have failed them more ways than I can count, I have never lost sight of the fact that I do (and must) love them and they must be allowed to hate me and know it does not change my love, nor theirs.
You and I share a similar experience, except my mother's ruination was in the form of spoilage; because she was born to be the most beautiful person in any room, everyone "loved" her instantly. She could scorn and waste the boundless, instant love, because she was never taught that it was wrong to do so. She never learned the difference between that instant devotion and the love of family. She expected it, invariably got it, often blew her nose on it. And I, as a casualty of her wastrel policies, learned the one thing I needed to maintain a decent parental standard; your children do not have to show you love; you have to show them. It is your job to remind them, when they can't feel it, that it is there, and it stands strong against the chemical spills of hatred that threaten to saturate a teenager.
At the end of your story I found my face was wet, without knowing I was crying. That hasn't happened since Lynda Barry's "Cruddy", and I'm grateful not to have experienced the icky-ness of being sinmultaneously amused and piteously horrified, at once. (I"m still a little pissed at Barry about that.) You don't have to amuse. Your tale is powerful and endless, and I look forward to encountering it in all its forms for years to come.
Wow! Lisa, thanks. I feel clean too. You are special.
Lisa Carver's brave and honest story had me sobbing before the end. So much of what she's recounted resonates with parallels in my upbringing. There is truly healing power in the unbridled truth, which Ms. Carver has undoubtedly revealed in all it's ugly, hurtful and pitiful detail.
Pretty fucking amazing story. Congratulations on making it through that.
really enjoyed that. deep, girl.
There is so much to read, that mostly I browse print. Not your piece. It was clearly genuine, profoundly self-reflective, and well written. It grabbed me. What I marvel at is the capacity for clear thinking. For your abiltiy to see amidst all the chaos and insanity what is really precious and what is dangerous and destructive, both to you and your child. How is this possible? From where does this part of one which remains sensitive to right and wrong come? How is this one undamaged part of you which allows you to get perspective able to survive all that you have been through? It reminds me of the children Robert Coles wrote about in the Moral Life of Children. Children who have gone through horrendous experinces, wars, the killing fields of Cambodia, the Holocoust, somehow maintain a space within themselves that preserves a moral sense of what is right and what is wrong. They can go on to become highly moral people. It is an amazing capacity that somehow survives in some of the most damaged persons.
As usual, you leave me breathless. From your pancake pals in Los Angeles - Dana and Doug
Lisa, I myself came from a broken mid-western upbringing. However, my dad died when I was only four years old and my mother remaired a man who was a drunken, sometime employed truck-driver. My past is a little too intense to get into on this comment board, but after years of abuse, and starting to drink/do drugs at a young age myself, I didn't see any way out of the abuse cycle for me except for not reproducing. I didn't have the courage and/or never picked a man I thought would be suitable to father any children with (or maybe I choose those drunken/drug addicted men that I dated/lived with for reasons that I felt non-maternal or inadeqate...I'm not sure-I'm still doing some self-exploration). As a 37-year old woman I feel O.K. with the fact that I never had kids(or been pregnant for that matter-in spite of having lots of sexual experimentation starting at a young teenage). Anyway, I do admire your choices, your honesty, your passionate writing style. You rose above it all and (sounds like) you became a good example for you kids, you are a brave soul.
I love you, Lisa
Your story is inspiring and challenging. I hope I can give my children consitent love like you seem to, despite myself.
My first memory was my mother molesting me. I'm about 3 years old lying in bed with my mother trying to have sex with me. My father was career military and claimed to have had no knowledge of this. Once my parents split my brother, also molested, and we went to live with mom. Well, that whole side of my family are child monsters. My mom's boyfriends would either sexually or physically abuse us. Life with dad was not much easier. We were subjected to an emotionally distant father and stepmother who resented receiving us as a "wedding present". We we received numerous beatings (leaving bruises from the lower back to the upper thighs), referred to in dealing terms such as "sorry sack of shit etc. To make a long story short I manageed to find coping mechanisms to get me through college and work. I've been married for 17 years. My brother didn't fare as well. He became an alcoholic and died in a tragic accident on his way home from a gay bar. My mother died a few years ago and I still don't know whether to grieve or piss on her grave. This is the first time I've been able to get my story out. I completely understand your pain.
Now you say something