Back to me!

When JC and I lived together in El Salvador, or when it was just the two of us, we had wonderful times. We were very young, immersed in art projects, reading, questioning, and curious about everything, with so many possibilities opening up before us. 

It felt good to be rebellious together, to make art, to read and philosophize. We could ignore our dysfunctional, controlling relatives without much trouble.

Coming here to live with his mother was the turning point.

She immediately began to treat me as if I were one of her maids. I was naïve and didn’t notice it at the time. 

I cared for her, for the house, and for JC, whose demands grew increasingly unreasonable. 

She, for her part, took every opportunity to insult me. She told me more than once that she hoped her son would find a blonde, blue-eyed girl instead. I overheard her on the phone with her wealthy “best friend,” speaking of me as someone beneath her standards, wondering aloud why her son found me attractive. She also complained to her friends on the phone as if I had been hired by her to do housekeeping.  

JC was oblivious to how his mother treated me and I never told him. In front of JC, she would praise, showered me with compliments and say that I was like the daughter she never had. 

Meanwhile, JC little by little started claiming the role of “The artist”, with me as his assistant. 

His music studio spread from one room to the living room, the garage, and eventually into our bedroom. His mother had her own studio and her own room. I had only the kitchen and dining room as my available space. It gradually became clear that they were the only “artists” in the house, and that I existed to serve them both.

When I finally left, JC was crushed and felt betrayed. For a long time, I carried that guilt. He tried to win me back for many years, even after he found the blonde, blue-eyed girlfriend his mother had always wanted for him.

I felt guilty because I had promised I would never leave him. In my heart, I didn’t want to but it became impossible to live with him and his mother. They had reduced my existence to that of a maid, and I had stepped into that role without realizing it, alone in a strange country and grateful for what felt like “family.”

For years, I was told how ungrateful I was for leaving. 

JC was crushed and wrote extensively about me and composed music expressing the heartache he felt over my departure. 

Now, somehow, I feel vindicated. A small re-creation of our life together has unfolded at the hospital.

From day one I have been caring for his mother driving her, buying her food, coffee, toiletries, and other necessities out of my own pocket to make her more comfortable during this difficult time. 

In return, she has used every opportunity to again insult me. In one occasion she repeatedly made a point of telling me that JC prefers Lydia at his side rather than me.  Then, in front of Lydia, she suddenly began asking me about who my father is and what he did. Something she already knows, but obviously wanted for Lydia to hear it. After I answered politely, to all of her questions, she pointed out how my dad never finished university and dismissed him as a “farandulero.” Then tried to fix it by saying it was other people who thought that, “classist elite people”- not her! (haha!) she said she was impressed by how well my dad had done despite not having a degree. 

Several times she made comments about “peasant people” being uneducated but “nice”, then referred to me as a “peasant” to Lydia. 

In between conversations, she has reminded us that she was not only an architect, but also an intellectual, an artist, a poet, the one and unique member of the wealthy elite who cared for the “oppressed peasants”. 

While I was driving her to where she is staying, she questioned me about my current financial situation. Later in that same ride, she suggested that I should help pay for a living nurse for her son.

Lydia thinks she has become a bit unhinged with age. The truth is, this all feels very familiar to me. This is exactly how she was before. Age has only intensified what was already there. 

I feel vindicated because this is a replica of what it was like to live with both of them. The difference is that she hasn’t changed but I have!. I was genuinely caring for her out of compassion and perhaps because this what the “uneducated peasants” do. 

I can forgive JC’s behavior yesterday. He is still under the effects of medication, and paranoia and irritability is to be expected. But his mother’s behavior is something old, something that has been there from the beginning.

I have, however, truly enjoyed the time I’ve spent with Lydia. We have grown closer through all of this. I stepped in to give her a break, because she needed it. Now, I am the one who needs a break. I have been spending a great deal of time and money, to help them all during this crisis. But now I need to slow down, reclaim my space and go back to painting.