Issue #5 Crying in the coffee shop
On mothering my feelings & missing my mom
A feeling had been welling up in me for a few days, a familiar one I’ve grown quite good at dismissing.
I’m a bit obsessive when it comes to solving the mystery of my feelings. I’ve mentioned this before but it bears repeating. I tend to intellectualize and create narratives around them, very specific storylines — preferably with no plot holes. It could be a subconscious anxiety that if I feel it, the feeling will control me. Or maybe that the feeling will tell me something I don’t want to know. It’s a trust issue.
Acknowledging my need to get to the bottom of things is not always helpful, I’ve been practicing just writing down the feeling instead of the thoughts I attach to it.
So I wrote, “I feel sad.”
Later while walking from my car to the coffee shop a more specific feeling dawned on me. I missed my mom and needed her to come see me.
After returning to LA from visiting my family for the holidays in Tennessee, I told my therapist it was taking me a minute to get my bearings. “It takes me a few days to reintegrate,” I said. “It feels like a completely separate world there. When I get back I feel disconnected for a little while.”
She asked me if I was feeling this way on account that my parents hadn’t come to visit. Technically, it had been since early 2020.
I shrugged it off. “Well they’re coming next year for the Rose Parade,” I said.
When Matt and I moved to Pasadena from Venice Beach in November my family showed excitement and expressed interest in planning a trip to come out for the 2025 Rose Parade. Understandably, it was too late to make New Year’s 2024 happen and we grew up watching the Rose Parade, so I took it in stride and appreciated the show of emotional support.
The response was quite different from the last time I had moved. That was January of 2022, and I was moving from a spot with roommates to live with Matt. The decision to move in together, as I suspected, was not met with enthusiasm from my parents.
Seeing as the change in tone this time around felt seismic, I dismissed my disappointment that January 2025 was still such a long way away and the suspicion that the visit was contingent on marital status – our wedding is planned for late summer.
While visiting last September I confronted my mom about this. We’re not allowed to share a room when we go to visit them, and it was bugging me more than usual.
She assured me it “wasn’t personal” and was just a house rule that she and my dad had decided on long before Matt was in the picture on account of their christian beliefs. This, I know, is true. And also didn’t change its effect on me.
There was something bothering me about it deeper than just the inconvenience of being in different rooms. It pinched a nerve more on account of my needing to feel acknowledged as an adult whose choices are respected, and wanting to feel accepted and at home while at home. But there was something else bubbling up.
“You don’t visit me because we are living together and that feels like punishment,” I said accusingly.
She said that wasn’t why she hadn’t visited, and instead said it was because she thought I didn’t want her to visit.
I told her that wasn’t true. I wanted her to visit.
Then a few weeks ago while on the phone with my dad he mentioned that they were thinking of coming to visit this spring. I was ecstatic.
There was conference in Laguna he planned to attend, and they’d spend a couple days with us before or after. “It’s one of the ones you don’t like,” he said cautiously. I appreciated his effort to skirt the charged topic.
Largely involved in Republican politics, the conference he was referring to is a conservative political conference, the same one he and my mom attended in February of 2020.
It was part of the reason they had visited then, too. I went down to Laguna to meet them – and reluctantly sat through a dinner speech – before we drove back to LA where they spent the day at my first LA home where I, at the time, lived with a friend.
By then I had grown weary of Republican politics and had chosen apathy – a far cry from when I eagerly attended the RNC with my dad in 2012 – and an even further one from the leftist I’ve since become.
The passionate change of heart has no doubt affected our relationship.
After many blow-ups, we’ve all become a bit better at respecting each other’s boundaries. This proved especially hard for me at the beginning of my journey because I felt convinced that if they only knew surely they’d change their minds too! Turns out, that’s not how it works.
Though the chasm between our views can present a great challenge to connection, we have made progress in the last year or so on account of our expressed shared desire to nurture our relationship. The wedding seems to be helping.
Later I called my dad to discuss something unrelated and before we hung up he said that my mom might not be coming out for the trip after all. We hung up and my heart sank. I swiftly moved on to the next thing, until I woke up the following morning feeling off.
Everything was bothering me. I was hypersensitive to the smallest prick – constructive criticism by a friend on an essay, Binny’s sometimes hard-to-manage excitement when dropping him off at doggy daycare, the inability to find a parking spot. Little stuff.
After parking a few blocks down the street, I walked from my car to the coffee shop. Surprised by the shift from my usual contentment being alone during the day, I felt loneliness descend. The silence of my walk gave me space to notice it. And when I did, I found sadness.
Then, I let myself cry. On the street, in line for coffee, when I sat down at the table. Public tears, I just let them drop.
Finding a table by the outlet – a much needed morale boost – I drafted a text to my mom. At first, it read a little passive aggressive, so I deleted it and tried again. I said I hoped she’d reconsider coming for the weekend, and suggested she could skip the conference and stay with me the whole time. I said, “I really need my mom to come see my life here.”
She responded with hearts and said she’d call soon.
When we did talk we somehow never made it to the subject – I had to hop off before we made it that far, for therapy, of all things.
We did, however, discuss an element of the wedding planning that was stressing me out. She offered to help and later did just that.
The last time we talked about the wedding it didn’t go as well, but I was able to communicate what wasn’t working for me about the dynamic and what I needed instead.
She heard me and showed up accordingly the next time. And that made me feel really good.
Somewhere along the line I think I internalized that it was better to avoid my feelings or deal with them in private, alone. I didn’t quite catch the part where feelings help me figure out my needs so that I can communicate them directly and maybe even have them met.
Historically, I’ve waited until it’s too late – held it in and stuffed it down until the lid flies off and all hell breaks loose. My mom has been on the receiving end of that more than once.
So, it’s not unimaginable that she genuinely felt I didn’t want her to come visit, at least at various points.
In our own ways, I think we’re both rebuilding trust.
I think befriending my feelings, including the sadness, is a start. Trusting it to just be with me, not control me. Trusting myself enough to pay it a little motherly attention.
When I spoke to my dad the next time he said, “Sounds like your mom might come.”
“To the conference or to stay with me,” I asked.
“To stay with you I think,” he said.
I waited awhile to see if maybe she’d offer an update. I hadn’t heard from her and thought it best to make a dedicated effort to talk with her on the phone about it directly. So I called and asked. She said she needed some more time to figure it out – there were a few unforeseen stresses that had recently presented themselves. She also said, “I do want to visit you.”
Texting about it later, she thanked me for wanting her to come and reiterated the reason for the hold up was on account of circumstantial conflicts. Remembering our miscommunication about “the reason” from the summer, I tried my best to accept her update with understanding. I was glad it wasn’t on account of conflict between us.
A few days later sitting on the couch, Matt said, “Do you have your phone?”
“No, it’s in the other room charging,” I said. “Why?”
“I’ll let you see. There’s a surprise waiting for you,” he said smiling.
When I unlocked my home screen before getting into bed, I saw the text from my dad. “We’re coming to Pasadena!!!” he wrote, along with details about their travels plans including confirmation that my mom would stay with us for the weekend while he attended the conference in Laguna.
There was also a text from her. “Will you have flowers in the bathroom if I come stay?” I had recently sent her a photo of hydrangeas I had by my bathroom sink.
She always puts fresh flowers in my childhood bedroom bathroom when I come stay at her house.
A few days later she called to check on me. She had a hunch I might be upset — I’d received a hurtful email from a relative regarding their decline to attend the wedding. She listened, supportively, as I processed my feelings aloud. I didn’t need to figure them out, I just needed to feel them in the comfort of motherly love.
Before we hung up, I told her how sorry I was that the feelings I was experiencing in that moment were ones I thought might be all too familiar to her on account of the larger family dynamic. I then heard her tears on the other line, before she thanked me and told me how much she loved me.
At the end of the day, I think that’s what she and I both want — to be seen. I know it’s what we need.
I think we’re both starting to learn how to love each other better in that way. And when we get it wrong, we keep trying.
I’m going to try and find daffodils for the bathroom when she’s here. A perennial in her garden, they always make me think of her. Hopefully, she’ll know how much I see her and how happy I am to host her at my house. Maybe it will even feel like home for her, too.****
Reading: “Othering My Wildfire: A macrocosm of trauma in my womb, which does tend to overflow” an essay by
about making space for the suffering that accompanies her period monthly instead of pretending it doesn’t exist.Relating on a molecular level both to her Rose Bowl Flea anecdote and more generally as a person who bleeds, her words offered comfort as I struggled to cope with the reality of my experience with menstruation. More specifically my period’s most recent havoc.
My period arrived the morning of our engagement photoshoot, accompanied by its usual agony. While attempting to frolic through an uneven orange field in heels and a white dress, I could feel the Advil wearing thin and the jab of my cramps return. My attempt at bridal beauty and prenuptial bliss teetered closer to the brink of meltdown saved only by the fact that I was able to openly expressed the true reason for my angst and have the loving support and patience of Matt and my friend Christina, who was photographing us. By the afternoon, I had some reprieve and found myself genuine in at least the feeling of prenuptial bliss and the satisfaction of being creative with friends. By bedtime, the pain came raging back as if to get revenge for giving me a few hours off to enjoy myself. The next day I felt quite terribly sad until I wrote the following entry in my journal which triggered a sort of release out of me like the lining of my uterus as it sheds — a comfort to justify the physical torment. Anna’s essay prompted me to share this, usually something I’d keep private as it is vague and perhaps convoluted, but I think it captures the intensity that lives in the womb.
Journal entry, day 2 of bleeding:
Laying in bed the inflammation burned with such palpability, I closed my eyes and all I could see were flames. Jaw clenched, I grit my teeth, seething in pain and anger. To distract myself from the physical excruciation, I clung to the pain she left me with the viciousness of her words. My mind spiraling in fictitious arguments, my defense, my accusations, my diagnosis as I tossed and turned in agony knowing it was useless. My anger gave way to surrender, the black hole of powerlessness sucking me under into the void on such occasions. Falling into the relief of sleep I dreamt of him. Of course I did. He is the one I associate with pain. In my dreams he is fleeting and incapable of trust. He is tempting and destructive. He is a serpent in the garden. I take the bite and suffer for it as soon as I wake. I am at a loss. Simply because there is no solution. I cannot reason with a person who is incapable of looking in the mirror. I have no diplomacy. There are only weapons and I do not wish to cause any more pain. The world is drowning in it already. I try to bury the hatchet, I try to politely move on, I try to smile when his name comes up in conversation, I try to send her a nice note. Maybe if I could explain my situation maybe they will return to put out the fire they started. I have a feeling I will be left waiting. I’ve learned to cope and mitigate the amount I can tolerate. Now I only let the one sleep next to me who is capable of soothing my heart while my womb is ablaze.
Reading:
newsletterListening to “Nothing Matters” by The Last Dinner Party , “Twist My Arm” by Carly Bannister, "Pink Pony Club” by Chappell Roan
Watching Poor Things, Mr & Mrs Smith (Amazon Show), The Iron Claw
Not Looking Away from Gaza/Rafah. CEASEFIRE NOW. Free Palestine.