Somewhere Lost, I Guess

The secret

Uncomfortable. Again my mom has made me feel uncomfortable in the truths of my life. Today I sat in her bed alongside Alex while she laid down on her side. We talk like we do and then she says "do you guys think you're going to have kids one day?" I instantly say no, but she can't stop there, and ignored me. She couldn't stop because the wording of her sentence could have a funny punchline so she has to continue in her mind. "Not between you two." She starts giggling and I lay there in silence, not laughing, not moving, in excruciating emotional pain from the extra comment. Because she knows, as I admitted to her in a time where I felt that trust between us four years ago that as kids Alex, my own brother, sexually assaulted me multiple times. She then turned my pleads for therapy into silence, just like I wanted to do to her in that moment. I wanted to shush her, and silence that comment. As if you told a friend a secret about another friend and they accidentally slip a comment to that friend. That lets that friend know that they know their secret when they weren't supposed to. But it wasn't even an accidental slip it was a purposeful joke for a quick laugh. Alex finally says in that silent pause which felt would last forever, "well obviously." She and him start laughing but I lay there in silence, wondering does she not remember? No, there's no way that she doesn't remember, it was just that she didn't care. So deep in selfishness that my humility, my pain can become her gain for a second. Because it wasn't her problem. It wasn't her concern anymore because she can just brush it under the rug in her mind like she does all my problems. All the traumas she knows. Because it wasn't just a punchline for a joke it's the sad fact she can't be emotionally aware that in that second I was the joke. It always comes down to that it seems, because I am not real to her. I am not my own person with emotions, I am just a subset of her in my moms eyes. When it's her trauma I support, I never share, and I make sure she is seen. But she can't see me either from unwillingness or inability. I'm never sure which one. I am the jester and she the queen. It's the way it's always been, and always will be. My trauma isn't hers, and her trauma isn't mine but my empathy is not dead while hers has always been. I'm not sure where I could learn empathy from such a narcissist, but I'm grateful I was able to find it in all my traumas she sees as petty drama until she can brush it under the rug and forget or poke and laugh and make jokes until I burst from the grief.