Me: I'd like to know where this is going.
She: Where what's going?
Me: This story. This writing. It's all over the place. There's no structure. There's no end in sight either. Where is it all going to end up? I really didn't want to write a re-hash of everything about my life that's pissed me off. I wanted to progress it, make something of it. You know, make it better.
She: What do you want to write about now?
Me: I don't know. I can't decide what's going to make sense. And what I can cope with.
She: What's been on your mind when you wake up in the night, or in the morning. What's smoldering?
Me: Stuff I actually don't want to write about.
She: What?
Me: What I did to my parents. My part in the alienation.
She: Can you start on that now?
Me: I suppose so. It does feel sticky and sad, choking and hot. Tight in the gut too -- that's a new feeling. But I'm ready to give it a go.
She: OK, go.
I did two things that ensured a gulf remained between me and my mother. I left the Catholic church, and I moved to the other side of the world. Let's deal with the Catholic thing first.
The day before mum died, she told me that the worst thing that had happened in her life was that I'd left the Catholic church -- but that she now realised it didn't matter. I was shocked. I'd had no idea. I knew when I refused to get married in the Catholic church, it was a Big Deal. They got the parish priest over to talk me into it. He failed. I remember the day clearly. I had just been bullied into having a polyester wedding dress, but I sat on the other side of the fireplace from Father Ives, and answered all his questions calmly, rationally -- I wasn't going to stand in front of a priest in a church and declare things I didn't believe just because my parents wanted me to. It was a matter of conscience. I wasn't going to be unreasonable though. I invited Father Ives to take part in the wedding service, which would be held on neutral ground, not in a church at all. I was open to him joining in. He refused. He got up from the arm chair, walked into the kitchen, declared me a lost soul to my mother, who was crying when I next saw her, and wouldn't look at me or speak. Shame, frustration? Their oldest child getting married outside the church. Well at least I wasn't wearing a silk dress!
Giving up on Catholicism wasn't something I did lightly or friviously, or quickly, or with the intention of gaining some precious sense of control over my own life. But from here I can see that it created a huge rift that would never be healed. And I kind of liked things that way. It was a way of saying -- you don't own me. You might dictate what I wear, and eat, and say, where I live, what I do in my spare time... but you don't dictate what I think or believe.
Me: that was a lot harder to write than I thought.
She: are you feeling OK?
Me: Yes, but a bit confused. It makes me question my motives. I've never thought I tossed away my religion to spite my parents, but maybe that was part of the motivation. I also feel a bit weird that all those years mum thought this was the worst thing that had happened in her life. I had no idea.
And I also want to say that whatever shame and frustration mum had over the wedding seemed to quickly evaporate, and the plans and preparations proceeded with a hiss and a roar, and it all came together nicely. We had the wedding in the Victoria Chambers -- newly renovated, and very lovely. We got married by a lovely Baptist minister (Nana Ward thought that was cool, her Sid having been a Baptist), all the relatives came (after receiving permission or dispensation from their parish priest to attend a non-Catholic wedding in a non-church), it was a happy day, and everyone agreed the whole thing was lovely. The dress didn't even look too hideous!
I remember Dad was dumbfounded that there was so much booze left over after that wedding. He did the wine and beer catering, and based his calculations on the usual family party consumption. Most of our friends and the other side of the family were not big drinkers. Some of them, including my new husband, didn't drink at all. So Dad got to take more than half the booze home afterwards, which I thought more than made up for for any trouble we'd caused.
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I went travelling, with my first husband, as a lot of people did in their twenties. We were going for 6 months, to Canada, the US and South America. We stayed away the first time for three years. Then we moved to Canada, and I didn't come home for a six year stretch. Dad had died, and I was pretty much disconnected from my sisters, not connected with mum either.
I remember during all those years, starting from when I went to university, really loving being away from the family, having the freedom to just be myself, get a sense of who I was, without all that expectation, controllling and interference. I wasn't going mad and doing stupid things, I was just reading, and writing, and learning not to be freaked out and anxious about everything. I was studying and thinking, and learning to cook, and even starting to get a sense of personal style -- just a tiny bit... that's still a work in progress!
And every time I was going home or seeing the family, I'd be thinking "This time, it's going to be different. This time they'll see who I am, and we'll get on, and like each other and have a real relationship." And every time, it was like walking into a time warp, where I felt like a defected freak, a different species, a disappointment. It was so frustrating. There was no way to connect.
Mum started coming to Canada with her second husband, and I hoped things would improve. During these trips, and some trips I made back to NZ, mum and I would be polite, but alien strangers, as usual. But I learned that by applying alcohol, at least we could have a bit of a conversation that didn't end in tears or frustrated anger. Drinking took the edge off my anxiety, which was sky-high when mum was around. Drinking made me lose my fear of offending her -- seemed to cement my sense of self. Drinking made her not be so easily offended -- she was a bit looser, more open. So we drank wine, or cocktails to take the edge off things between us, and we coped.
We didn't connect. But we didn't have a completely miserable time.
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And I would say that was the first time in my life I was really aware of alcohol being a very useful social lubricant. I drank when I wasn't around the family, but I drank far more when I was.
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