Recently, I was having a phone conversation with my 71
year-old mother who lives in Brittany, France. I mentioned that I was
travelling to Spain next month for a short break, but that I had only got as
far as booking a one-way flight to Madrid and hadn’t decided how to divide up
my week regarding travel and accommodation. For me, taking the first step was a
big deal; I would be traveling alone, I badly needed a holiday and after a
couple of glasses of Rioja one evening, and in possession of a
healthier-than-usual paycheck, I decided to stop feeling sorry for myself, and
just book a flight to somewhere. It was an out-there gesture, but when the confirmation
email from EasyJet landed in my inbox, I was elated.
My mother, however, did not share my elation; far from it. I
could hear the trepidation in her voice as she quizzed me as to whether I was ‘okay
with travelling alone’ (I’m 36 and lived for 3 years in Spain) and then, the disappointingly
predictable question about whether I could afford it. I deliberately
sidestepped the question- because I no longer considered it an appropriate part
of our exchanges- and went on to say how much I was looking forward to it. The question
came again, this time more indirectly. ‘Well, as long as you think you can
afford it….’
I snapped. I sighed heavily into the receiver and then told
my mother in no uncertain terms that it was absolutely not cool to quiz me over
my finances, that I didn’t feel like continuing the conversation, and that
perhaps we’d catch up later in the week. The call ended as diplomatically as I
could muster, and as rapidly as my mood had deflated. I then went into the
kitchen and poured myself a glass of wine.
I felt on edge, but more prominently, I felt a deep, sinking
sensation in my stomach which is becoming all too common every time I talk to
my mother these days. It had hit me some years ago; the realisation that as you
grow older, your parents are no longer infallible, and perhaps, in extreme
circumstances, people you even like any more. And believe me, it is one of the
most painful awakenings ever to befall you. What is also the cruel paradox is
that your time with them apparently becomes more precious once you’re old
enough to see their glaring shortcomings in all their glory.
That my mother is apparently incapable of empathy has hit me
very hard over the last ten years. I appreciate that it’s not for the want of
trying on her part. She comes from a generation, and an upbringing, where the first
step is to fix a problem, not to listen to and indulge it. Her method of
dealing with my lifelong depression, which was finally diagnosed around 2007,
was to tell me to ‘snap out of it’ or, in more compassionate moments, ask what
she could do to help me. It wasn’t help I wanted. It wasn’t pro-activeness or a helpful suggestion
of cleaning up my bedroom ‘because then you’ll feel much better.’ But that was
her way of helping and it was all she had to give.
Times became a little bit tougher than apparent teenage woes
and dilemmas once I was in my late 20s and early 30s. At 32, I estranged myself
from my father which was an incredibly stressful time. It was made all the more
isolating by the fact that my mother- who, to be fair, with only three of us in
the family was firmly caught in the crossfire- also distanced herself from me,
even when I briefly moved to Paris to work, just a TGV ride away from her. I
hoped she would visit for the weekend, and give our relationship a chance to be
rebuilt, but she didn’t. It later transpired she was too terrified of my father’s
reaction. My next assignment was in Gran
Canaria, where I was badly ill and generally had a miserable few months. We had
a screaming row down the line from my cheap Telefonica mobile before I hung up,
realising she was someone I could no longer count on, and feeling the most
alone I have ever done in my life.
I could recount more experiences where a good mood has been curtailed over the phone or by email, where she’s absentmindedly cut me off mid-sentence, where she’s missed the point of a poignant moment I’ve shared with her, but I won’t. What I have realised however is that my mother doesn’t really listen, let alone grasp where I’m coming from at all. Her retired, Francophile world is filled with good food and wine, trips to Provence and anecdotes about having an apero with the neighbours- and why not, she’s earned it. But in equal measures, my angsty, thirty-something world of living alone, on a shoestring salary and suffering from depression, has become a lot more real. And it would seem that never the twain shall meet.
