I dream of her.....

.....rarely. To be exact, only four times since her death in 2003.

She used to tell me, when she dreamt of her mother, who died when she was 13, there were never any words spoken. My grandmother would appear to her, sitting in a chair in an empty room, dressed as if she were going out, purse in hand. She never said anything, just looked at her lovingly. My mother took that to mean my grandmother was always with her; always by her side when she needed her, which she said was a great comfort.

In contrast, the dreams I have of my mother leave me distressed and sad. The theme that unites them is an uncontained and violent anger against her indifference. I feel it just thinking of her; it starts as a knot in the pit of my stomach, my heart races, I shake, I clench my jaw..... We are always arguing, which turns to a fight like the ones we used to have (she who screams loudest wins, and if you can throw something, you get more points), and always that familiar feeling of dispair washes over me; that feeling that came from knowing, no matter how sound my argument, how valid my feelings, how right my position, how loud and violent my tirade, she was immovable in her stance. I was just wrong; I was flawed; evil; you name it. So in my dreams I yell, I scream, I am mean, cruel, spiteful, angry, angry, angry, angry, angry, angry. And still, I don't think she hears me. I wake up exhausted and spend the day trying to keep my simmering anger at bay.

I mentioned this to my therapist (are we surprised by this bit of info???) who as a master of the obvious stated, "You've not yet gotten over her." I sink lower in the couch at the thought I might never get over her; she is not around to hear my argument, to concede she might have been wrong, to for once, apologize. But then, how could I not be past it all? Don't I understand she was who she was, incabable of being or doing anything else? Don't I just shrug my shoulders at the thought of her anymore, turn and walk away?

Next, my therapist hits me with a possible diagnosis of PTSD. Excuse me? I don't flinch at loud noises; don't bear the scars of beatings; don't fail to function on a daily basis, weighed down by the memory of it all (OK, most of the time). She ignores me, then describes my needs in the context of a 35-year recurring trauma, and who I am falls neatly into that column. Needs an escape route; needs to have a plan; needs to be informed of changes far enough in advance to adjust......there was more, but it got lost in the fog that settled on my brain.

When my mother died, I did not mourn the loss of her -- she was not my biggest fan, my most staunch supporter, loudest cheerleader, the first one I turned to for help -- I mourned the loss of any chance there might have been for things to change. She died as she lived with me, unapologetically, without explanation, and keeping with her all the things I should have known to help me understand it wasn't me, it was her. She just shrugged her shoulders, turned and walked away.