Center of attention

There’s a VHS of me, about 7 years old, dancing on top of a chest of dress up and disguises, spilling out closed corners. 

I’m singing blissfully unaware that I’m off key.

I’m moving my body like it’s just for me, something I misplaced since then. I have layers of clothes that I chose, feathers flung around my neck, I’m a hodgepodge of happiness, and I am glorious. 

And then, in my too small, plastic, Princess Jasmine slippers, I slip.

My head hits the makeshift stage before gravity claims anything else. Legs suspended, then crashing limp. 

I rewatched this scene in adolescence when I felt much too far from glory, and as I gasped feeling of firsthand, secondhand pain my mom clasped her chest as laughter barreled out, syncing with her laughter from a decade prior. 

My pain turned to embarrassment and shame. 

Who am I to be in the spotlight?

So this week when my therapist asked if my mom has a personality disorder, I blinked. 

Feeling the silence, she pivoted to a more subtle landing. It sounds like your mom needs to be the center of attention a lot of the time.

Battle flags readied and nostrils flared. 

Defensively, I rejected the notion. If anything, she’s given up the center of herself to cater to my dad’s snaps of anger. She has more trauma than I could ever imagine. I don’t think she needs to be the focus.

“Clarissa, you just told me about your baby’s first birthday, where your mom missed the blowing out of candles because she was having a ‘panic attack’ because your future sister-in-law doesn’t want your mom’s political friend to officiate her wedding.”

I don’t even acknowledge her evidence but instead I immediately line up, swinging into the story of my first baby shower, adding to her point unknowingly.

Reliving and replaying the 2020 saga; I start to hear it. The pattern of needs rejected, feelings reversed, and the smoldering of my reality with extra layers of explaining her imagined intentions.

Then I think back on a moment my brother-in-law said something cruel with the sole purpose to make his mom cry. I could never do that in confidence I’d come out the other side. 

In tears she left the room, my little niece saw her leave and asked what happened. I tried to soften the discomfort by saying, “Nana’s sad, why don’t you go give her a hug and help.” Her mom cut me off, saying, “She’s not responsible for adults’ feelings.” 

She was right. I’ve always been responsible for others’ feelings, though. 

Protecting, preventing, explaining, carrying–others’ emotions and meanings. 

I can’t unsee it now; how I need to be the center of attention, for myself. 

And that for me, my feelings should come first. 

So they don’t become someone else’s to hold and I can really show up for myself and those I love without, hopefully, falling on my ass.