Unexpected Insight: The Entry in Which Robyn Bares Her Pathetic Soul to Friends and Strangers

I was going through some old things today, looking for a silly story that I wrote when I was 11 and sent to a publisher in the hopes of having it published. Zoe has been wondering if she could have a book published, and I thought she might enjoy seeing my childhood attempt.

In this box of old junk I found a letter from my mother on the occasion of my 12th birthday. It is. . . telling. . . to say the least. The tone is interesting throughout. It is primarily an "explanation" of my birthday gifts, which did in fact beg some explanation.
1. The Think Book (a book of puzzles)
2. The Joy of Love Book (Good lord. Where to start? I have no memory of this book.)
3. Encyclopedia Britannica (These I still have. They look nice on my office shelves.)
4. The Woman Doctor's Diet for Teen Age Girls (We'll come back to this one.)
5. A checking account/check book (I apparently needed to learn the value of money.)

Holy cow. That's a barrel of fun for a twelve-year old, no? But it says a lot to me now. It has become clear to me in my adulthood that my mother has a very difficult time with affection. For whatever reason the only way she knows to show love is by telling the people she loves what they are doing wrong, ostensibly so they can do it better. I thought this was something new--born of the depression she has fought on and off for the past 20 years. But it's slowly dawning on me that she's always been this way.

So the letter begins:

Happy Birthday Robyn:
My but you're growing up and there seems like there is never enough time for me to teach you all the things you need to learn from me as a mother and my experience in life as a girl growing up.

Your presents this year all added up to helping me help you learn.

She continues with the list of the gifts I named above, and an explanation of each one. I'm going to skip right ahead to the diet book. Looking back at photos, I can see that I although I thought I was fat then (hahahahaha. Irony!) I was actually pretty average. Mushy average, I'm sure, since I spent most of my free time reading, writing, and watching t.v. But my mom rode me CONSTANTLY about my weight. And so her "happy birthday" letter continues:

I know I am always harping on your weight problem. I think this book will give you guidelines which only you can use. I shouldn't worry about your weight as much as I do because sometimes I know you get tired of hearing it, but I want you to feel good, look good, and be able to do all the things you want to. When you have read the book and understand your eating habits--those things you like and are so bad for you--maybe you will come to see that you are the only one who can do anything about the "fat" on your body. Important and exciting times are coming up for you in the next five or six years and you know that I get frustrated when we can't find something that fits you and looks good on you. . .

It goes on and on. Two full, single-spaced, typed pages. Here are some other choice excerpts from my happy birthday letter. . .

I do seem at times I am sure to expect perfection from you. You are not perfect. . . but I feel and have always felt that if you want something bad enough and work hard enough you can get it.

We as a mother and daughter have the same problems that mothers and daughters throughout the ages have had. A mother wants a daughter to do certain things, not when the daughter feels she has the time, but when the mother wants them done.

And the warm-fuzziness goes on.

I'm not sure why I'm posting this other than I really needed to get it out of my system. A good friend jokingly suggested not too long ago that it's a wonder I'm an even halfway functional adult. I'm starting to believe that might be true.