Diane Danvers Simmons - My Mother Next Door

My Mother Next Door

by Diane Danvers Simmons

Copyright 2021 Diane Danvers Simmons

ISBN 978-1-64663-506-1

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meanselectronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any otherexcept for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.

Cover designed by Lynnea Bolin and Linnea Bolin

Published by

3705 Shore Drive

Virginia Beach, VA 23455

800-435-4811

www.koehlerbooks.com

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all the Dunphy women whove come before me, and their indomitable spirit, which has been passed down

from generation to generation.

Thank you for never allowing NO to be the final answer, and for

giving me a voice.

And to my father, who taught me the importance of family,

however complicated.

Disclaimer

My story is written as a narrative memoir, one which shares vignettes of my mothers life and mine leading up to her departure and the immediate years thereafter.

The events, the places, the houses, the people, and my pets are all real. However, even if I pride myself on laser-sharp memory, there is only so much one can or wants to remember without a little creative liberty. And as youll read, there was a lot of creative liberty and storytelling going on in my upbringing. However, I have not altered the essence or the fundamental truth of my story.

Out of respect and to preserve their privacy I have changed the names of all my living family members and friends except my eldest sister Marie, who said she would be offended if I didnt use her real name, my sister Lesley, and a few of my high school friends, who also didnt feel I should. And finally but certainly not least, my cousin Mike, who made me laugh when he said, No problem, as long as I get the opportunity to play myself when the book gets turned into a film.

AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION

Not everything that is faced can be changed,

But nothing can be changed until it is faced.

James Baldwin

This is the story I never intended to tell but was destined to.

When I was sixteen, I solemnly vowed never to do unto my own future children what my mother had done unto memy very own motherly version of the golden rule. I mean, how could she? But then, decades later, when my daughter turned sixteen and I found myself standing in my mothers shoes, I realized three things. Firstly, that sometimes a vow can be so deeply ingrained that it tests our limits (or it can paralyze us); secondly, that there were some parallels in our lives. And finally, that seeing the humor and absurdity in life with a chilled glass of ros in summertime or a hot toddy in winter is really the only way to survive.

In her youth, my mother escaped the boundaries of her beloved Ireland and family expectations to seek her fortune in Britain, just as I too headed further west and left Britain for the USA in my twenties (though my exodus was as much to get away from Mothers shenanigans). Then, in middle age, she escaped the boundaries of home and parenthood to reclaim her independence.

And now I too felt as if something inside of me was missing, and I had to find a way to reclaim my true self, explore my next chapter, and spread my wings againwithout throwing my children out of the nest in the process.

Standing at this crossroads in my life, unable to decide whether to stay, go, or attend another self-help pilgrimage in my latest yoga gear, my entire being teetered on a precipice. I knew I could not pass on the same pain Id experienced at my daughters age or destroy all the good years Id invested in my American family.

It wasnt until I was on an adventure in Morocco, attempting to reconnect with my daughter and heal the turmoil that burned within her from my own marital fallout and her first year at college, that I was taken aback by some disagreeably wise words from the most unexpected of channelers.

A German lady named Lisa and her Turkish husband, Erhan, told me, You need to forgive your mother, and you need to break the pattern for your daughter and future generations.

What?! We might have just shared a delightful day of tea, stories, and an evening meal with a glass of ros together in Riad Ros, but they barely knew me, for crying out loud. After another swift glass of ros to stop myself from actually crying out loud , followed by fervent denials, insisting that Id forgiven her years before, actually never blamed her, and had let go of those memories so long ago... I realized maybe they had a point.

So, finally, in my quest for resolution, I reinhabited the child of the British 1970s that I was, and ventured out on my own version of Monty Pythons Holy Grail (though happily without any French knights telling me my mother was a hamster and my father smelt of elderberries, after farting in my general direction). It became a long journey of rediscovering parts of myself and my youth that had been buriedthe truths that make up the character of the woman I have become. It was about recognizing the patterns, the triggers that I didnt even consider or maybe hoped werent there, and continuing to make the choice to react differently and find the silver linings. This journey didnt take me even further west but instead brought me right back home to my roots, to the irreverent comedy that kept me sane in the madness, and to the people who had been my fellow travelers in those early years

I reconnected with my eldest sister, Marie, my major source of family myth, mirth, and mystery; my former sister-in-law; and my aunt and my cousins, as they shared stories that even my brutally honest mother hadnt. There were intimate moments around a firepit with my lifelong friend, known as Sophie in this book, reminiscing, laughing, even crying as she brought back to me moments Id forgotten or blocked. Memories came rushing in as we pulled out the hairbrushes to sing along to some Diana Ross song, accompanied by our own, now adult daughters. Traveling back to the UK, my mother country, I also reconnected with old high school friends, the ones whod been by my side in those confusing adolescent years, and who stepped in to hold me up once again. Each shared their own recollections, anecdotes, and feelings, as well as their impressions of my mother, father, and me. Each of them shared something Id forgotten, or affirmed something I hadnt.

My cousin Mike nailed it when in a recent text he said the two of us were part of the barrier generation (a made-up term by Mike) as for most of our lives we have chosen to talk about the good, the funny bits (of which there were more than enough for any sitcom), but not the painful memories our bodies held on to.

What emerged when I began to write was a story of heartbreak and forgiveness, love and hate, madness and sanity, comedy and sadness, sacrifice and self-liberation, defeat and empowermentfeelings which surprised me as much as they challenged me and enlightened me, in more ways than I could ever have imagined.

Through this journey, I not only placed my fifty-something self into my sixteen-year-old self, but I also saw it all through a new lens, as the mother of my own blended American family: a teenage daughter and son from my womb, and an older stepdaughter and son, courtesy of my husbands first wife. And as corny as it sounds, Ive learned a lot about being , something I thought I already had down after all my Deepak and meditation courses.