Stop and go, off and on…
My emotions and the way I feel about things change by the day. It’s hard to keep up.
Sometimes I hate my family and I never want to speak to them again. I feel so certain about this that I believe it’s done and I’ll never have to think about it again. Then the next day, I’m filled with guilt and confusion. I’m angry and I blame myself. Then the next day, I want to fix it all. I think if I can just word things the right way, approach it just right, maybe we can get to a place of understand. Then the next day I’m overwhelmed with anger, having spent all night losing sleep thinking about the countless ways they used me, cast me aside, lied to me. All of them in separate, unique ways. Then I’m struck with empathy. It’s not their fault, right? If my Mom had an abusive parent (though she claims vehemently that she didn’t-but she must have! Right? Otherwise how could a mother be this way?) then she couldn’t help herself and should be met with compassion. Then I think of all the ways I went above and beyond, sacrificed so much to show her said compassion, and still at the end she lied and stole from me, lied about me… but it’s so fucked up that it can’t actually be her fault!
Thoughts like this go round and round in my head, day in and day out. I’m exhausted.
I’ve gathered some numbers of therapists to call who specialize in ptsd. My night terrors have gotten so bad that I wake the family up at night screaming. My husband doesn’t sleep, just like I don’t. The nightmares are constant. I’ve cut off contact from my mother, yet her programming lingers. And even still I wonder… am I to blame? Was I a bad child? I don’t feel like I was. I feel like I was a loving and tender child, wanting the best for everyone. But—two thoughts here—one, if my mother is crazy enough to use and abuse her own child, to allow us to be on their own for days on end with dirty clothes and no food, to yell at us when we tried to do something good like clean the kitchen or soothe the baby… if she could be that damaged, perhaps I am as well and I don’t know that even though I think I’m a compassionate and kind person, that actually perhaps I’m truly awful. My mother thinks she’s an empath, a woman with special spiritual powers. She often tells me she did her best, loved me to death. If she could believe that, then how can I be sure of my own sanity, when she seems so sure of hers? Secondly, my mother often told me I had a bad memory, created false memories. Most of me believes she is wrong, but what if..? What if I she really was a tender loving mother and I’m just blowing things out of proportion? I mean, it’s hard to argue that might be the case when we were removed from her care twice by the state. But… maybe? If my sisters can’t see it… then maybe?
My mother is old now. She needs me most now.
Even though speaking to her is incredibly damaging, should I just put up with it because after all, she’s my mother? She did do some good things. She wasn’t all awful. Though she was a good bit awful… how much is a mother awful? Am I being too harsh?
I imagine loving me must have been incredibly difficult. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Was I just born fucked up? Or did I become fucked up? Did my mother drink when she was pregnant? It’s hard for me to imagine she didn’t. Is that to blame for my emotional problems? Am I actually brain damaged? And I put my poor mother through hell?
No. My gut says no. If she wasn’t doing anything wrong, then she wouldn’t have taught me to lie about it. I remember there was a pile of clothes so high in our house that it blocked the front door for years. That’s not normal… is it? I could never have friends over. Literally ever. And if I did—which let me say was maybe 10 times in my life—I was instructed to only allow them into certain rooms, lest the see the moldy piles and boxes. Surely that’s not right, is it? But is it wrong enough to leave my mother alone now that she’s at the end of her life and needs help the most?
in my heart, I want to help anyone who needs help. But I can’t help people who want to hurt me, who actively lie to me and about me. But maybe it’s not her fault and I need to just do it anyways?
I need help. I can’t sort any of this out. When I think I finally do, it’s all broken and new again the next day and my opinion is completely different.
I know that this confusion is by design. I know she did this to me. But that doesn’t make it easier. It doesn’t make me less confused.
Mothers can be difficult, right? But how much is a daughter supposed to withstand? I am an orphan now. My father is dead. My mother is …
I’m not sure I ever had a mother.
My mother screamed the words Fuck You to me when I was 11 years old. Multiple times in one sitting. No mother should ever say this. I can’t imagine ever screaming fuck you to my son. But.. I can’t remember what I said to make her say this. Did I deserve it? All I can imagine was that it was something about her drunkenness and neglect. I never called my mother names or said mean things just to be mean. I never did! I still haven’t to this day! I just tried to make her see… I tried to show her the pain she was causing, that she might understand… but maybe I said something truly awful and I just can’t remember? Maybe I am awful.
It’s hard for me to believe this is true, but it’s the only way to make sense out of her behavior and my sisters’ behavior as well. Mother blamed her bad behavior on my handicapped needs, or my bad behavior. But I didn’t behave badly! I took care of the children, I cleaned, I did well in school! But I did get very angry sometimes. I know from my studies that anger isn’t allowed in dysfunctional families like mine. I still struggle with it. I don’t know what I’m allowed to be angry at, and if I’m too angry. I’m not sure how much anger is allowed in any situation. I don’t know what to do with it.
I have many dear friends. Good, kind people who come visit me all the way from different states. Friends for 15-20 years, some longer. I think I’m a good friend. I certainly try to be. I would do anything for them. I am loved by many people who I admire and respect. Surely that should reflect on me and prove I’m not a bad person, right? But still I wonder. My biggest fear is that I’m a bad person and I just don’t know it, like my mother.
But I’m open to criticism and feedback. If I’ve hurt someone, I’m happy to work through it. I’ve worked through several conflicts successfully with friends. Surely that’s not the work of a bad person..? But why then would my mother hit me? Why would she lie and steal from me now, after everything I’ve ever done for her? If not that I truly deserve it?
No, no. That’s not right.
I’m not a vengeful person. I believe if someone (not my family) shows ugliness towards me, to walk away and just feel pity for them. I would never and have never lied or cheated my mother. So no, it’s not fair for her to treat me this way. And I don’t deserve it. I don’t! I’m a good person! And I gave everything to her! I was there when no one else was. I found her a job and a new place to live when she was going to kill herself and leave my baby sister without a mother in her last year of high school. I moved her and packed her boxes myself! I was there with her the whole time dad was sick. The girls were only there for 2 days. I helped her pay the bills. I watched the girls when she was nowhere to be found. I fed them. I fed myself. I fixed the holes in their blankies. I drove them back and forth to Detroit. I got my sister a job. I got mom a free mover by pulling a favor from a friend when she moved the last time and was crying she couldn’t afford a mover. I took her to the doctor and picked her up. I checked on her every week for years! I took her to parties, tried to find her friends so she wouldn’t be so lonely! I invited my sisters to do things with me all the time! And they never invited me! I did that. I can’t think of a single thing I ever did that was malicious. I can think of things I might’ve done that were thoughtless, but I was just a little kid!
See… and I’ll do this to myself over and over. I’ll work myself into a state of confidence and then wear myself down into a place of self doubt and confusion over and over and over.