Momma and I were best friends. She was my “momager” in pageants and modeling in my glory days. She was my sister in Delta Zeta Sorority. She was my real estate Broker. She was the most amazing mentor ever. She was my problem solver, confidant, guru, shopping buddy, secret keeper and because she prayed so hard for me, she is my protection now. She fought cancer for 6 years and in those 6 years was caregiver for 2 of them for her own sister who lost her battle six months before my Momma lost her own. It’s been 10 years since her death. I took a few years to heal. Did some things I never would have expected. Accomplished a lot but struggled because life was just never the same with her gone.
However, life goes on. I hesitantly returned back to work after years of absence from the industry. It was different. Really different. I intentionally made it different. I purposefully looked at everything through what I imagined would be her eyes. That changed everything for me.
THIS is the introduction to the next pathway of #mimismiles
What would Mimi do? She’d pray about it.
And that’s why I’m where I am now. And I’m so immensely grateful for that.
I’ve decided to bring back the blog. Might want to think about subscribing now. I have a feeling you’re going to like this next chapter.
I credit my mother with super hero vision powers. She saw me. She could see through my words. She could see through my actions. She saw me when I couldn’t see what was right in front of me and when I was still trying to see who I was inside.
When I was in 6th grade, she got me a Judy Blume diary. She encouraged me to write down my feelings and express myself. It was difficult and took a while to catch on but deep down I knew it helped me.
I come from a family, a region and a culture that is predominantly Hispanic, stereotypically machismo and in my mother’s eyes had clearly hurt her daughter (and I feel had hurt my mother even more harshly). She and I were both raised in a culture where women were submissive, were unworthy of valued opinions, used for sexual entertainment, reproduction and daily maid services. she was a child of the 60’s — where the sexual revolution and women’s rights were promoted. I was a child of the 80’s — where latchkey GenX kids were left by themselves with highly processed foods, pop rocks, lawn jarts, Saturday morning cartoons and MTV because both parents either worked and were never home or were divorced and never home and forced their children to live out of a duffle bag as they jumped from house to house for visitation rights or were forced to live with grandparents until one parent could get their act together. My mother’s super hero 20/20 vision could see the conflicting messages both our generations were served in the world we were both raised in. Teaching me to journal was her way of empowering me with a voice to express my innermost feelings, something I think she may have struggled with herself as a child.
When I was a teenager, I endured chronic sexual trauma – this verbiage was carefully chosen to use, deleted and then reinserted again because I feel the words are both shockingly harsh and yet scientifically sterile and numbing (all feelings that correlate perfectly to the experience). The guilt and shame that came from it was nothing compared to the feelings I had later, after I had the courage to speak up and tell the two most trusted people in my life about it and then get blamed for it. So I locked it up inside of me. My mom saw me. She saw through me. I think deep down inside she knew something was terribly wrong so she arranged for me to speak to a psychiatrist. The term codependent entered my head and never left after that.
I remember a book shoved towards the bottom of our hall closet. It was called “Men who hate women and the women who love them”. My mom read tons of books daily… all of them Harlequin romance novels. So this book stood out even though she tried to hide it. All her other books were on a built in book shelf in her bedroom. But this one was hidden. And told me she struggled in the same ways I did. Did she recognize this in me in my early years? Did she see how I was always trying to impress my parents? Did she see how defeated I was when I never seemed to impress my father? Did she see the hurt in my eyes as I saw how bored, annoyed and agitated he was having to watch my ballet performance or piano recitals? I think she did. I think she recognized her own younger self in me as well. I wish I had remembered this sooner.
Your brain protects you as you try to heal from hurt by blocking certain memories until you’re able to deal with them. I feel stronger now, ten years later and now am remembering more and more. I wake up more often with bad dreams now but vividly remember them and I think this is my head telling my heart that I’m ready to deal. Memories of my mom encouraging me to write it all down and seek help – still in a family and society that keeps secrets – is making me feel like she’s giving me permission to push beyond cultural stigma. The really awesome thing about this is that if I talk about seeking ways to improve my mental health and being ok with it may empower someone else reading this to do the same. Are you ok? Because if you’re not, it’s ok to ask for help to become ok. Sometimes we can’t do it all by ourselves. Having a picture perfect Instagram or a to die for bikini body or fabulously waxed sports car isn’t all that if your mental health is mush. Priorities baby. Are you ok?
So who was it that tried to convince me that 50 was old and no longer sexy?
Who decided that grey hair was unattractive and we needed to dye our hair all the time and damage it even more?
What bozo tried to convince us that we need plastic filled faces to eliminate wrinkles so we can hide the years of happiness carved into our eyes and stop us from smiling genuinely?
Who said Boomers can’t do what they used to? Because I’ve become better as each decade has passed.
This week I enter the 51st year of my life… and I’m not hiding it, lying about my age or what I choose to do in it.
You can diet, starve, gorge, exercise, couch potato like a pro, you can knit a pot holder at Burning Man, kick back as many drinks as you want (so long as it’s lactose free), and hold any opinion you want because it’s backed by personal experience so long as you’re a Gen Xer surviving. We are the children of Boomers and hippies. We are the parents of Millennials. If you’re in your 50’s you can do what you want. I’m doing what I want… and I really don’t care what YOU think about it.
I really don’t care if you think I’m fat or slow or weak or old or ugly. I feel pity for you if you don’t recognize my value and just focus on totally unimportant characteristics. I really don’t care if you think my political views are wrong. I voted. End of story. Move on. I’ll turn up the volume to my car stereo and sing melody, harmony and back up vocals to Bohemian Rhapsody. I don’t care because you are not Simon Cowell. I’ve learned that every criticism you have of me tells me soooooo much about you. That’s wisdom right there. I’m liking it but it’s a double edged sword.
I’m pretty happy where I am in my own skin. I am amazed at the sudden wisdom and insight I have now… especially gained over this year. I remember as a kid opening up Cracker Jack boxes hoping I would finally get the ex ray glasses so I could see through things and be prepared for everything hiding out to get me. I now marvel in enlightenment as I can now see right through people… but now see how empty, sad, unfulfilled, envious, ignorant, codependent, narcissistic, materialistic, angry, neglected, rejected and confused they are… and I want to give my glasses back. I’ve been there. I was in each of those phases and didn’t enjoy them one bit. But I made it look good to others and convinced myself that it was a good thing for me to be like that.
But it’s true. With age comes wisdom and when you know better, you do better.
AND HONESTLY I CANNOT WAIT TO GROW YOUNGER NOW. I’m 51. Fifty freaking one!!!!
My baby brother lived to the age of 38. My grandmother and namesake lived to be 45. How incredibly blessed am I to have these days that they were never able to.
I cried when I turned 30 because I thought I was old. I laughed when I turned 50 because I realized my life is just now becoming my own!
RunMyssieRun 