For as far back as I can remember, I have often quoted the words, “Guilt. The gift that keeps on giving.” I don’t know if I heard/read that somewhere or whether it’s something I made up on my own, but it is something I’ve experienced for longer back than when I remember quoting those words.

When I use that phrase, I am most likely connecting it to something that happened between my mother and me. I can remember feeling guilty that I’d upset her in some way all the way back to my early tween years. Lately, I have been thinking about interactions with my parents (my dad was sometimes included, but my mom was “in charge” of the decisions made as a result of those interactions). I think this might have been more prominently in my thoughts now because of the upcoming anniversary of her death, the anniversary of her birth and my parents’ wedding anniversary, all happening from mid-February and the beginning of April. I’ve read countless social media posts and blog posts about mothers, and all but one were flowery and loving, filled with adoration for the wonderful mother that they had. If I had written anything like that, it would not have been authentic.

I’m not saying that I didn’t love my mother, or that my mother didn’t love me. We were not a family by word or act of affection, and much like what I talked about in my post questioning if negativity was genetic, criticism was both verbal and physical, but I can’t recall ever hearing either parent say to any of the three of us the simple words “I love you” unless it was in response to us saying it first. Maybe when we were very young and, upon being tucked in bed at night, we’d get a response of “I love you, too” if we first said, “I love you, mommy.” It honestly felt like the only time we got our parents’ attention was for something negative we’d said or done. Because that negative attention almost always included fierce physical punishment, I most often tried to be invisible. Actually, my brothers, especially my older one, wasn’t ‘bad’ often, but when he was, he took being bad to the max. I think the younger one got away with a little more because most of his ‘crimes’ were small by comparison…. and my parents were tired by that time as well.

It took me until just a few years ago to come to understand that, while I wasn’t a perfect child and deserved consequences for my behaviors – we all did – that the punishments didn’t always fit the crimes. My mother was fond of her carved wooden paddle and putting us over a kitchen chair as her choice of punishment. More often than not, we were left with bruises and welts by the time she had expunged her anger in this manner. And when I say that “the punishments didn’t always fit the crimes”, I mean that the amount of strikes by the paddle were most often not in conjunction with said crime but simply continued until she was done. Taking a dollar bill to spend at the snack bar at the community pool could be worth 10 smacks while saying some random swear word (the ones that got heard, anyhow) might get 4 or 5. By the time I was in high school, I was too big for the chair, so the new form of discipline became taking away anything that could be considered a privilege. And since I didn’t have many privileges to begin with, what was taken away was usually a privilege that was near and dear. The one I will never forget is not being allowed to audition for my senior year’s musical. I had been in everything musical – marching and concert band, choir, a group for choir known as the Choraliers, and the chorus for my junior year’s musical. I don’t even remember what I’d done wrong, but that loss of privilege broke my heart and still hurts my heart today when I think about it.

My mom, who passed in 1999, still comes into my thoughts on a regular basis. Lately, when the negative thoughts and memories arise, I make myself think about all of the things my mother did by action which can prove that she did love me. I remember when The Sound of Music came to the theatres and she and I, without my brothers and dad, went to see it on Sunday afternoons – yes, afternoonS, plural – I don’t remember how many times but I know that it was more than I can count on one hand. Later on, she took me along – and paid for -on bus trips to NYC her school district was having for senior class members to see shows on Broadway and play tourist in the downtown area. Chaperones led the students around but we were on our own to do as we pleased. Mom always chose the two-show option, a matinee and an evening performance. She didn’t have to take me. In fact, she could have gone on her own with her friends also going and I would never have known, but I cherish those opportunities still today. And always, these things remind me why I can say with authority that my mother gave me the legacy of the love of music in all forms, watching, singing and playing.

I’m sure she knew how much I adored those times, but lately I’ve come to realize that I never told her “thank you” in those words or shared my appreciation in any way. I never spent any money except for an inexpensive trinket if I stumbled upon one. There were also times when I got to spend one-on-one time with her, such as helping her out each evening after I got off work to go to the Farm Show Complex where she had a table of her ceramics at a craft show and sale. I was happy that I was the caring daughter who came to give her a break, manning the table as she took a much-needed break to walk around and head outside for a cigarette break. It was definitely a time when I felt like an adult in her presence, which didn’t happen often. And I felt trusted, which was a huge feeling for me to experience. That came from a place where I often felt that my parents were unconsciously awaiting the next mistake I’d make.

The gift that keeps on giving – guilt. I can’t say I felt guilty during those growing years for the reasons I made her angry and punishment seemingly necessary. But over the past few years, I feel a hefty weight of guilt at times for a lot of things.

My guilt isn’t limited to my relationship with my mom, though it is a prominent source due to the nature and length of that relationship. I’m having a current bout of guilt that I have to continue to consciously talk myself away from. My beloved brother has mentioned about making a trip to visit me. Now, over the course of time that I’ve lived here (almost 9 years), I have made far more drives to visit him, easier because I was retired and the 4-hour round trip wasn’t as big a bite into my time as it is for his on one of his two days off each week. Most trips (all but one that I remember) also included the transfer of frozen meals from my freezer to his to heat and eat at his convenience. The last time I made a trip there, I realized that my health issues made me less than 100% comfortable, though I’ve managed just fine. I’d prefer not to test myself, though I’d make that drive without question if I was needed to make it. Anyhow, he’s talking about a visit to me. I’m grateful, not only not to have to make the drive but because there are a couple of things around my place that I need assistance with – for example, changing smoke detector batteries since I’m not willing to climb high enough on the step stool without serious worry of falling. The same goes for anything for which I need to get down on my knees to do since getting back up is difficult and painful. And I know he’ll help me out without a second thought. The most difficult part – for me – is dealing with my stubbornness about needing help in the first place. But the biggest part that sticks in my head is what it will cost him in gas to make the trip. He doesn’t have a whole lot of wiggle room in his budget. But I keep reminding myself that I gave him my gas discount card to use a couple of years ago since I can get by on a tank of gas for 2 to 3 months. I contribute to the discount earned – more than he does – by the shopping I do that earns the discount. It may only be $3. 00 or $4.00 or so on a tank of gas, but over the course of the years he’s had that card to use, I’ve contributed more than enough to pay for a tank of gas. And yet… the money that he’ll have to spend to visit me makes me feel guilty.

Guilt – it is a gift that keeps on giving in my life. I’m getting better at looking at guilt rationally, like the deal with my brother spending money for gas, but I’ve never been able to stop receiving the gift of it. And the gift is like a perfume – it lingers in the air long after it has been sprayed.

My mother gave me this gift first, and it is apparently a gift that lasts a lifetime…