When I was a child, I was afraid of my mother. I would watch how other mothers treated their children and wonder what was wrong with my children. Why do you love me?
Now that I’m 24, I realize she was cruel to me. She’s not a monster by any means, but she doesn’t understand the magnitude of her actions.
Don’t get me wrong, I have a lot of great memories from my childhood, and watching home movies over the past year has shown me just how much my mother cared about us when we were kids.
But there are other memories of her neglect and abuse that have left a very large scar.
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When I was a child and started to cry, I was met with a piercing stare, a raised hand, and the infamous threat: “I’ll give you a reason to cry.” I’ll shut up in a moment.
She gloated to other mothers about how well-behaved her children were; Unaware that we obeyed out of fear, not respect. If I’m bad, I’ll get the belt; One lash for every year since my birth. I remember one time I escaped from the belt, and locked myself in the bathroom until I finally gave up. She likes to tell that story to get some laughs from the audience.
Not to say I wasn’t a troublemaker; In fact, I’ve always been a little brat. I wasn’t exactly a spoiled brat, but surely there were better ways to punish than violence.
Once she reached adolescence, she became an athlete, and was, by all definition, a soccer-crazy mom. No one ever wanted to drive us to away games or tournaments because my mom loved to talk about herself and would never let you talk about her. She liked to grade girls on beauty and took third-string players seriously.
And no one left her without contempt. We were just kids.
She was tough on me, and I did everything I could to play hard, to win, to make her proud, and to be good enough.
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Walking to the car after a bad game was like walking into a dragon’s den; I was terrified. When you scream, I don’t speak; I just let her get it all out. However, when I played good games, I couldn’t wait to get into that car and get that validation from it; It was the best feeling in the world to feel appreciated. Once I stopped playing, we didn’t have much to talk about anymore.
As I became a teenager, my mother became more cruel to me. I couldn’t take it. She refused to go out with me in public unless I turned into something nice. She always criticized my appearance and never felt beautiful around her unless I finished everything.
When I was sexually assaulted, she told me I was doing it for attention. She asked me to dig deeper when I started hurting myself, and when I turned to drugs, she called me a loser and cut me out of her life.
When I cried or lashed out, she told me not to feel sorry for myself, not to feel self-pity, and I didn’t. My skin grew thick, and I never felt sorry for myself, because sympathy was not easy in my house; In fact, it never came at all.
Eventually, I became too much for her and she kicked me out. To be honest, I was happy to leave.
Once I became an adult, I started to get my life together. I graduated college, went to grad school and got my first real job in my field. I started volunteering and got my own cat. I paid my own rent, lived with my partner for many years, and saved enough to buy a car.
I consider myself very successful so far, and I’m proud of myself. She still likes to take credit for cleaning myself up and becoming the woman I am today.
She says it took her “letting go” of my life so I could fulfill my own potential. It’s infuriating. I couldn’t do it because of her; I did it in spite of her.
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Over time, things got better with my mother, but people don’t change. In fact, just yesterday I mentioned how she always goes out with my sister but never spends quality time with her other kids. Fatal error.
She looked at me like I was crazy and shocked me as I talked about how I was a grown woman and that I didn’t need a “mom” to spend time with. She said, “At your age I had two kids, grown up. I mean really? Do you want your mom to call you to hangout? It’s pathetic.”
I suppose I insulted her, and her best defense is always a strong attack. Her words are profound and she is always relentless in the lengths she will go to hurt people. My eyes started to swell, my throat started to close up, and I had a hard time getting the words out to say, “I just want to spend time with you.”
I got up, changed my clothes, and went back to my house. I cried all the way.
It’s not all bad of course, but I still don’t tell my mom most things. I’ve learned to only show the sides of myself that I like when I’m around her. I don’t talk about my problems and I certainly don’t share my secrets. Maybe one day I will stand up to her, but over the years that has proven to be futile; She doesn’t listen.
So I left it. I accept that I will never get validation from her, as if that will somehow make her less special to make someone else feel special, even if just for a moment. I find validation within myself. Most days I’m okay with it, some days I’m not, and my tough exterior falls on the little girl inside me crying for her mother.
