The Truth Doesn’t Always Set You Free

I have friends who whine about how their moms or dads walked out on them when they were little, and I feel their pain. I know what it’s like only having one parent. But here’s the difference between their situation, and mine:
They can make their absent parent anyone they want them to be. Maybe their dad was an actor, who left so he wouldn’t cause any trouble or screw it up by not being there cuz of his career. Maybe, their mom was a really nice person who made one bad decision. They can change their minds on that as much as they want. I envy them a lot. Why?
My mother will always be Sharyl Lynn Morse-Ellis. She’ll always be a child abuser. She’ll always be a drunk. She’ll always be a druggie. She’ll always be mental. Nothing can change that, because it’s the truth. I can’t make her up in my mind, because the facts prevent me from doing it. I can’t decide that I want her to be a painter who left to pursue an art career in Paris. She can’t be a wonderful woman with big green eyes who died in 1998, and I was just never told about her. I can’t imagine a woman who loved her children dearly and never said a mean word against them, because I know better.
Sure, not knowing who she was gnawed at me every day until I couldn’t take it anymore. I ached for a single glimpse into her then-unknown life. I needed that piece of reality. But once I knew who she was, I pained for a taste of being in the darkness about it, to see which I would prefer. And, sometimes, I really would prefer not knowing. I don’t want this mother; I want to be able to make her up as I go along. The truth doesn’t allow me to do that. I know who she is, and she’s not who I want. I hate saying that, but it’s true.
I’m aching for a mother I can make up in my imagination. Mine would be a novelist. She’d sit in a comfy chair while writing her books and sipping hot chocolate, right in front of the fireplace. She’d do paintings on the side, and sell them at auctions. When she painted, she’d be at her happiest. She’d come out of her studio with paint all over her hands and clothing, looking perfectly at ease. There would always be cookies in the oven. When they’d get done baking, she’d eat one right then, even though she knew she’d be killing her tongue from the heat. She’d love our father dearly, always doing portraits of him that she hung up around the house. The house would always smell of gingerbread, from those candles she’d love. She’d be a non-smoker, non-drinker. On the straight-and-narrow. If you were downtrodden, she’d hug you and make you Jell-O, not asking any questions, leaving it up to you to tell her what was wrong. She’d have hazel eyes that could melt your heart. She’d be the very definition of “considerate mother.”
It’s far off from reality, but I’m a dreamer.


2 thoughts on “The Truth Doesn’t Always Set You Free

  1. zezemia4000 says:

    that really makes me think

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