Looking for a mother’s day card I came across this one and laughed out loud. I knew I couldn’t send it to my mother, but I sent a photo of it to my BFF who I knew would laugh.
This was my mother… I can hear her voice saying those words, minus the “rats ass” part (she was not one to use foul language) but the gentle encouragement was spot on. Nothing gentle about it, and no encouragement. The following post was written in response to a Daily Prompt a few years ago, and seeing as it is Mother’s Day I will share it again.
I read through many of the posts on the Daily Prompt page before sitting down to write a response, as I was curious if they would all be positive. Most were, but I did find a few that weren’t, so I felt better I would not be alone.
I did not have a mother or a relationship with my mother like those my friends had. Their mothers loved them unconditionally, built up their confidence, hugged and kissed them for no reason other than they wanted to show their love. Their mothers encouraged them, helped them to rise up to meet a challenge and stood by them as they climbed the mountain to reach it. They gave them guidance, listened to what they had to say, offered feedback with understanding.
If you were to ask my two sisters what their experience with my mother was, they might list all of the above. But not me. I was cut from a different cloth, more like my father, with his traits, which maybe was the first problem. She was never able to understand who I was, so different from her. I was sensitive, easy to cry, easily overcome with emotion if I couldn’t “get” something, which was always met with a response of stop being so dramatic, or get over it. I grew up hearing “you can’t” a lot, “what’s wrong with you” which only served to continually undermine my lack of confidence and self esteem. The answer was most often a resounding no when I wanted to try something new. Her own fears getting in the way of allowing me to grow. In school I was on my own, I longed for the mother who was interested in what her child was doing for homework, who helped with projects. I was not a “self starter” like my sister, who didn’t seem to need the “extra” something, the encouragement, she did just fine on her own.
My mother was great at pointing out the faults, never the positive in something that I accomplished. The focus was always on what was or had been, forever ingrained in her mind, never how I had improved or how far I had come. It was impossible for her to give me the compliment.
My BFF pointed out once that she thought my mother never really “got me”, never really understood who I was, nor cared to. I was different from her, so therefore I was wrong. She wasn’t emotional, wasn’t an emotional person, therefore how could her daughter be? She was pragmatic, so how could her daughter not be?
It wasn’t until I was in my 40’s that I finally came to terms with the fact that I would never hear from her that she was proud of me, never hear that she thought I had “done good,” that she loved me. You may ask why does that matter if I know I have accomplished things despite her lack of encouragement. It matters. Maybe it is a built in preconceived notion or emotion that makes us seek approval from our parents, maybe it is the lack of that approval that makes us keep wanting it more. I spent a lifetime attempting to have her see me through positive eyes, to just once have her encourage me rather than say no, or don’t bother, or why would you want to do that? I realized it was never going to happen and it was time to just accept it.
There are different ways to accept something we have no control over changing. Accept it and continue on in the relationship with a different expectation, knowing you will never get what you need, or accept it and close the door on it. I chose to close the door. I chose to no longer bear the brunt of her negativity, her inability to give me what I needed emotionally. I needed to step away. I call her now and then, months can go by when I realize I haven’t even thought about her. Though her world has been shrouded in dementia for many years now, somehow she still manages to get in a dig or say something hurtful when I do call. I just laugh to myself when it happens, confirmation as to why I haven’t called in months and won’t call again for months.
She took care of what needed to be taken care of as I grew up, doctors appointments, braces for my teeth, clothes on my back, but I can never remember hearing I love you, or having her there for me when I was going through something challenging. Sometimes the clothes on your back are just not enough.