See Me

Photo by Aziz Acharki on Unsplash

“I’ll think about it,” my mother said.

We all want to be seen. It’s obvious in children when they call out to their parents, “Look at me. Watch me, Mommy. Watch me, Daddy.” As we get older, we stop asking people to look and maybe even hide from ourselves the wish that someone will.

For decades, I never thought about this memory of my mother I’m going to share. Never even crossed my mind when I wrote The Space Between: A Memoir of Mother-Daughter Love at the End of Life where I examined our relationship. But watching Benedict Cumberbatch play Patrick Melrose, an alcoholic man abused by his father as a child, shook a memory out of hiding.

It was in the 1980s. I no longer lived in Los Angeles, so most visits with my mom were phone calls. I dreaded calling her, never knowing who would answer the phone. Our conversations would devolve into a crazy-making place where she twisted everything I said. I’d defend and explain, all to no avail. I felt defeated by our conversations, as if I had gone ten rounds and was left knocked out, sprawled on the hard concrete.

Photo by Oscar Keys on Unsplash

I began calling my mom earlier and earlier. Most of the time, I’d catch her before she’d had a drink, so our conversations were pleasant. But I couldn’t always talk early in the day, so I’d still find myself in the conversational pit where talking to my drunk mother sent me.

On a visit to Los Angeles, I decided now was the time for a serious conversation with my mom about her drinking. I was terrified, anticipating she would greet what I said with a fury. Anger scares me because of my early life with an angry father, then more years spent with a violent brother. But I couldn’t let fear stop me.

Although I wanted and needed my mom, I had reached bottom of what I could tolerate.

I don’t recall most of what I said to her, but I recall this. I said, “Mom, if you don’t stop drinking, I can no longer be in relationship with you.” Inside, I cowered while I’m certain I appeared determined and strong on the outside as I waited for her answer.

“I’ll think about it,” she said. We kissed and hugged when she left my hotel room. I wanted to hope, but being pragmatic, I understood my hope had no impact on what she’d decide. Our relationship ball was in her court.

The next morning, she called. She told me she knew what was happening to her. She told me if no one noticed and no one said anything, she didn’t care enough to stop. And then she spoke the magic words that she would stop drinking. She loved me enough to stop. If she’d been in the room, I would have hugged her like I never had before. Instead, I thanked her and said I loved her very much.

This interaction with my mom taught me an important lesson: We all want to be seen because this is how we know we matter. This is how we tell someone we care. Children know this. That’s why they’ll act out and behave abominably to get their parents to pay attention. Negative attention is better than no attention.

My mom’s behavior when she drank got my attention. I guess the child inside wanting attention remains in all of us. If no one ever notices us, does what we do matter? Sure, we can cherish our alone time when we aren’t asking the world to see, but even introverts want someone to take heed of our existence now and then. We need it less than extraverts do, but we still like to know we matter.

Of course, we all prefer you notice great things about us. But, even if you might not like someone’s behavior, as with my mother, if you speak out and show you care, at least we’ll know you’re paying attention.