My mother managed to convince me that my grandma merely pretended to love me, that it was only my brother who really mattered to her. That I couldn’t see it because Grandmother was careful to hide her lack of interest, forcing herself to smile at me, giving me presents on my birthday. But I shouldn’t let that fool me: she didn’t care about me at all.
I believed her.
Many years later, flipping through old albums, I came across a picture of Grandmother and me doing crafts—just the two of us. On the back, my grandma had written, “Isn’t this delightful?”
Reading those words, I figured out, or at least decided, that she did have feelings for me.
Some time after that, during therapy, I remembered something. I used to gently tickle her neck, like my granddad used to do. She had suggested that I do it, and it had become a nice little bonding moment between us. One day, when no one else was around, my mother reproached me for the behavior: it was sexual, disgusting, an old lady’s eccentricity, and I should never do it again. I felt ashamed of what I had done, and ashamed that I hadn’t recognized the disgusting sexual nature.
But then, digging through this buried memory, I realized that no, there was nothing inappropriate about it, especially since it sometimes happened in public. What an adorable scene, a little girl tickling her grandma’s neck.
The memory gave me something else that was invaluable. Grandmother couldn’t have found me totally repulsive, for she let me put my fingers on her.
How do I expel the rage that takes hold of me when I think of my mother’s manipulations?
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