Never make me cry...

Admittedly, I've cried more in the past two days than I have in a long, long time.

And they weren't homesick tears.

It all started on Monday. The tension was thick, as it usually is during these moving times. For some reason, instead of just being an understated affair, my moves have always been marred with problems. This one proved to be no exception.

We'd been in close quarters since Saturday, being together nearly every hour of the day. It was a nice way, somewhat, to enjoy the family's last hours together before I left again. But as it always does, the time spent with my mom began to slide into conflict.

I cannot clearly recall what happened on Sunday, between my mother and me. Apparently I was making several comments that were irksome towards her, my sighing and frustrations with her somewhat mundane and (to me) obscure questions. I got up that morning prepared for such questions from her, thinking I could keep myself from sighing, exasperated, and pitching some sideways comments.

Apparently I touched some nerves.

Monday morning, I had just pulled out of the driveway, and was a half-kilometer from my house when she said, "Pull over, turn around."

I don't even recall what I had said the instant before she said this. Turning to look at her, my face creased into a frown of confusion. What was she talking about? I hesitated and continued down the road.

"I said turn around!" she screamed. "Now."

I pulled over, eyes wide with horror. She slammed her fist against the dash and started raving. Completely mad. I couldn't compute what was happening. She was saying that I should take her home, because she was not going to take another day of being my punching bad.

A moment passed, and she calmed. "So what's it going to be? Are you taking me home, or are you going to be civil."

I stammered. "I need your help. I can't move on my own. What am I going to do with the car?"

"That's not my fucking problem," she said.

I started to tear up. This was not making any sense.

For the next several minutes she outlined (roughly) how I had been insensitive, demeaning, passive-aggressive and overall undesirable towards her over the course of the summer. I could understand some of what she was saying, but this was the first time I was made aware of most of it.

She finally agreed to keep going, which I did. But she kept talking, too. My memory is blocked (I'm assuming) because I can't remember what else she said. I just wanted her to shut up, sit in silence and not worsen the situation.

By now tears started falling down my face, and my lip trembled. None of this was making any sense. It was my mother, screaming at me. This never happened.

We made it several kilometers down the road, and she finished her talking. "So, what have you got to say," she demanded.

"I...I don't know...I," escaped my lips. This only worsened the situation.

"Pull over. That's it. Just leave me here."

"No!" I yelled, trying to recover. What the hell was I supposed to say? I thought being non-committal about my answer would keep her from further anger, not produce more.

I talked for a minute, saying how confused I was about what she was saying, asking for more clarification. This helped, as she started talking again. By then her anger was rolling in waves; calm would move in, followed by a new torrent of anger.

Finally we fell into silence. Awkward silence. I wished I were alone, that she had of gotten out, because I wanted to be nowhere near her at that moment. Yet there we were, locked in the car together for the remainder of the trip.

We arrived, and things seemed to have settled a little. After grabbing up the last of the boxes, we dropped my stuff in my room. It was 1:30, and I was afraid she would want lunch.

"Well. That's it then. I guess we should get something to eat," she said, right on queue. I sighed and agreed. What else could I do?

We ate in silence. There was some small talk, about my financial status, and my impending birthday. I was in no mood to discuss anything. After all, it seemed my mother hated me.

Lunch finished and we made the walk back to the car. By now she seemed to have loosened, but I was so hurt that I didn't really soften. My protective shell was around me, and I engaged in little committed conversation.

I put a few empty boxes in the car, and closed the door. She hugged me loosely.

"In the end, you know I always love you. You're the most important thing to me," she said.

"Yeah, I love you too," I said, but I don't know if I meant it right then.

"Well, I'd talk more, but we're just standing in the road," she said. I nodded, and she got in. I started walking and didn't look back.

When I got home, I was in shock. I understand somewhat where she was coming from, recognize my relationship with her is unique. She drives me crazy with seemingly senseless questions and ideas, and I don't handle them well. I snap back with retorts and make it known when I question her. So yes, if this has been building for the entire summer, I can see how she may be upset.

But the way she exploded. It was unlike anything I've ever seen from her before. It broke my heart, and it was a shitty way to leave things between us on the day I moved out.

I found myself in tears a few more times yesterday, but distracted myself with my roommates and unpacking. At times, all I wanted to do was cry it out, but that never happened. Maybe it should have.

Today I got up and went about my business, trying to ignore yesterday's craziness. I still felt badly, but tried to ignore it. I've never been hurt this way before, and I don't really know how to deal with it. I wondered how she was feeling, if she was still furious, or had she regretted what had happened?

Tonight I called my Dad's cell, probing for information. We talked for a while about our days, and what I was up to now that I've moved back. He never mentioned anything, so I finally asked about how mom was. He didn't bite, and just said she was fine.

The conversation was winding down, but I wanted to know what was going on. Finally I said, "So mom and I had a pretty big blowout yesterday."

"Yeah, I heard," he said. "Pretty bad."

We talked about what was said. "You know," he said, all reflective-like, "Your mom is a lot more sensitive than you think. You've gotta...be more aware of how you say things. Don't get me wrong. We both love you so much, you're a great guy, Steve, you really are..." his voice trailed off. I started to cry again.

What I wanted to ask was why she'd done it, was it really that bad, why it had to happen that day...but I just listened to what he had to say.

"I don't know," he said, "she loves you, buddy, but you've gotta go easy on her."

He paused a moment, while I stifled a sob. "Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yeah, oh yeah..." I said, choked. "It was just a shitty time to do it, I mean, on my last day."

"She felt really bad when she got home," he said. "Really. And she didn't sleep last night. In the morning she was saying how she figures you won't be coming home much anymore, that you're going to be cut off from us..."

(It's a thought. After all, my instinct was that she needed space away from me. I wasn't planning on calling her today.)

"So should I call her? Does she want space?" I asked.

"No, no, call her. She's probably waiting to hear from you, she was really regretting that it happened. I know she felt so bad. You know, we love you, buddy. I love you."

This really got me, because he never says it.

"I love you too."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Later, I picked up the phone and called her. We talked for 15 minutes, a little (lot) reserved, about this and that. How my day went in the city. Et cettera.

I thought she was just not going to mention it, but she asked at the very end. "So, do you want to talk about yesterday?"

"There's really nothing to talk about," I said.

"Oh. Alright."

What was I going to say? How hurt I was? How do I say that without stirring up another fight, because, after all, if I blamed her at all she'd just wind up angry again.

I guess it's over. She didn't say how badly she felt, but it was good to find out from my dad.

Not the high note I wanted to arrive at school on.