A mom hates me.
Just to clarify: MY mom loves me. And I love my mom.
But the fact that this person who hates me is a mom seems significant in some way. In a way different from man hate or childless-woman hate.
It’s hard for me to believe, even as I hear my inside voice as I type it, so let me say it again. A. Mom. Hates. Me.
Hate is such a strong emotion. I only call this hate because it was asked of this mom if she would ever change her feelings towards me, and she said that she would not. Only love and hate inspire such long-term promises of devotion to their passions, and this much I know: it ain’t love she feels for me.
There are very few people, at least that I know about, that hate me. Some merely tolerate me (and mostly I tolerate them). Some really don’t have an opinion. But in general I think most people quickly come to understand many characteristics of my personality: a straight shooter, ready to laugh, often willing victim of my appetites, warm, ready to cry, comfortable with quiet, and very passionate about certain things, things that ultimately have to do with what it means to be human, a part of humanity, a seeker of stories, beauty and Meaning.
When I can’t avoid The Hate (as it were), I always struggle. Why does this person hate me so much? Because I don’t believe the same way she believes? Because of my bad habits? Because of my past?
Did I spill something on her carpet?
Why does anyone hate anyone else?
I was thinking about Jesus, because you know, I’m always wondering What The Fuck Would Jesus Do? He was a guy who had a lot of hate directed towards him. I’m a little wary to mention it, what with The Passion Bullshit and all this year (not to mention the words and actions of our Pontiff-in-Chief), but I’m finding myself relating to Jesus’ reactions to The Hate: confusion, irritation, frustration and finally, a near-silent resignation to those who would wish to hurt him.
I don’t know what to do. Both communication and silence only contribute to the problem. I don’t know how to be any more honest or polite.
Sometimes I wish I’d just be like everyone else and pretend to be what everyone else-else wanted them to be, irregardless of reality. But alas.