Is It Too Late To Be A Better Son To My Mother?

For a long time now, I have wondered why there is a silent distance between my mother and I. I can’t remember a day in my life, in the last 15 years, when I have had the privilege of sitting with my mother, for breakfast or lunch. We don’t sit together and talk. We walk together, but we were never together, and I cannot move past the emotional unavailability. As children, we carry our own emotional  baggage. And as a parent, one may have expectations that keep us from having our own beliefs and perspectives.

I always remembered I was affectionate and protective towards her. It defines my love for her, but I could never get past the fact that I was unable to express my love in its entirety , because I felt so distorted by and lost in my own troubles and issues that I could not get things to work out. I realized I had lost contact with my mother. The relationship that we mostly share is somewhat ‘to each their own’, which leaves an impression, a scar, giving rise to colliding emotions that never bring us back to the place they started from.

As human beings, we often expect support from people around us, be it friends, extended family, or parents. There comes a downpour, after we form our outlook, once we start realising how we thought things would be, and how different they turned out to be.

I wanted her to be there for me as much as I wanted to be there for her, but we both lost something after a point due to our own emotional baggage. I started growing up with my identity, as a trans man. I started exploring myself within my cocoon because I was too afraid of coming out. I was aware of the results and well. It was too much for me to handle. I know I should have tried to be a better son. I could have sat down with her, cried, and told her how much I hated my body,but  I knew it would have taken a lot for me to make myself understood.

I pretended to be strong which took away what little chance I had to grow and be the person I wanted to be. Being emotional was never an option for me. It wasn’t even a choice I was offered as a child. I was always asked to be strong, rude, and held tight to these things because that is what was expected of me. I was never asked about what I love; I was never asked what I wanted to be; I was never told it was okay for me to sit down, watch a silly movie, and just feel at home.

I tried to find my home. I still go back home, to try again, to find the home that I may have missed the last time, but every time it takes away my hope a little more.I don’t want acceptance. All I want is a simple word – that she is there. I want her to tell me how I can go to her as a friend someday, and not as a burdensome child. Maybe, both of us lost ourselves in the mediocrity of the society surrounding us, and it might be too late for me to go back and feel the comfort of my childhood.

Now, the home that I actually felt could have been mine just isn’t the one for me. Is it too late for me to feel it? Or is there another chance for me to go back and make things better in ways I might have missed?

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