An Inspiration

A Story by marrta

Someone inspirational is not neccessarily someone aspirational.

People tend to deify their mothers. They tell you stories of the kindness in her eyes and pancakes on Sunday mornings. They glance back at you, with a warm smile, anticipating to notice your childhood memories reflect in your eyes. Expecting a tale of one Christmas morning, when you were nine, or that time she embraced you when your heart was broken. How do you tell them something less magical? How can you toss that holy figure right off a pedestal? You look down, smile gently and quietly answer: “She‘s an inspiration“.

No one can be described as flawless, far from it. Yet when you hear “flaw“, you may guess the person chews rather loudly. You may assume it‘s about an annoying laugh or a lack in height. Very few of us would immediatly think of manipulation and mercilessness. These are the top qualities of the bad guys in the movies, not a guardian, not a role model. While the girl down the street was learning how to do the cross stitch, I was studying the art of deception. I can still see her falsifying the price tag of a sweater, hiding these new boots under the couch from my father. Like every decent parent, she taught me not to steal from shops, unlike your conventional mother, she taught me to steal from those closest to you. Whenever I heard her say “That‘s my girl, you‘ll go far in life“, I knew I had done something wrong. I knew I had earned another gold star in a bizarre version of an education system.

I will never forget the day my sister walked out that third floor door, down the steps, got into a car, colour of mixture of blue and green you only see on cars, and I never saw her again. My mother was not a person you want to irritate. Bad temper, ruthlessness, whatever you can call it, she had it worse. And on that afternoon in late December, when she did not shout, she did not scream, I knew the inevitable had come. I was 17 at the time, no means to support myself, no place to go. Just a clear vision of the next eight months of my existance turned into a slow, well thought through torture. I heard her invent a plethora of ideas that I supposedly expressed. She sounded so believable she almost got me, what‘s there to say about my father, loveable, yet naive man that he is. Suddenly, my preferences of spending my leisure time were useless, as I was soon informed, my very presence in a room was upsetting. Have you ever felt unwelcome in your own home? As if if you crossed the threshold of the certain room, the very walls could whisper all your faults? It‘s more than enough to make you look out that kitchen window in hopes of a blue-green car of your own pulling up.

I suppose you cannot say she was incapable of motherhood. She taught me a lot, even though it‘s only an understanding of what I never aspire to be. What I never desire to be remembered as. How I never wish to treat my loved ones. How to walk out the door. “My mother is an inspiration“, I answer. An inspiration to be better.