The Mother Wound
Therapy can provide some really good insight into how and when certain character traits were formed. Not all good, but not all bad either. I mean, realizing you are a people pleaser at the age of 42, when you’ve been this self-proclaimed independent, don’t-give-a-flip-what-you-think-of-me woman can be a jolt to the ole nervous system.
Perhaps a more interesting revelation has been that my mother has narcissistic traits. In my pursuit of healing, I’ve learned that your mother telling you “I thought I didn’t have to worry about you because you were fine, you just did your own thing,” was actually emotional neglect. This ties directly into not feeling seen or heard growing up…and follows you well into adulthood. Don’t get me wrong, we had a roof over our heads, food in the pantry (sometimes thanks to the grandparents) and clothes on our backs…but going back to school with designer jeans when we had maggots in the pantry was always a bit curious to me. This is how my therapist helped me put together that appearances were important to my mother, but emotional support was not her thing. I get it – our parents do the best they can with what they know. They can only do so much, right? But it doesn’t detract from the damaged psyche we carry into our adult relationships or the way we see ourselves.
In the most recent installment of a complete lack of emotional support, my mother fat shamed me at a family gathering. I was in the kitchen grabbing a non-alcoholic beer when she approached me to ask how I was doing. It had been a particularly high anxiety day, so I chose to be vaguely honest and replied with “I’m not well, but I’m here.” Her immediate reaction was to ask me if I was pregnant. Keep in mind, I’m 42 and have said no to kids since the age of 27. Any guesses as to why??? I shook my head, but the incredulous look on my face must not have alerted her, because she followed this up with “well, I’m sorry but I had to ask because you look heavier than the last time I saw you.” When my eyes welled up with tears and I still said nothing, she doubled down with “I’m sorry, I just had to ask you instead of asking someone else.” Right…you just had to insult me on the heel of me admitting I was not okay mentally. Makes sense. She asked if I was upset, to which I only nodded. The nerve of her to judge me on my weight the second I walked in, and then jump to the grossest of conclusions! The twisted part was that, in some sick way, I still wanted her love and acceptance in that moment. I tried to explain my struggle with depression, to which she replied, “what’s making you depressed?” Ummm that’s not how depression works. Defeated (and absolutely deflated), I let the conversation fizzle when my brother walked in. The salt in the wound was that after openly judging me for my weight, she sat next to me while we were eating. Unbelievable. I cried most of the way home.
I confided in my aunt the next day, who was just as appalled as I was. When I got a text from my mother a week after this happened (not an apology text, in case you were wondering), I decided not to respond. I wanted to make sure that I was in control of my emotions, and I just wasn’t ready to have a conversation with her…and I damn sure wasn’t going to let this get swept under the rug. This past weekend, I learned that my aunt had a conversation with her about how hurtful her comment was to women in general, but more specifically how it was hurtful to me. Her response was…less than surprising. “Yeah, well she’ll probably never speak to me again; I can never say anything right; I’m just a bad mom.” Not one single iota of remorse. Not even a whiff. Some people really know how to play the victim to a crime they committed. Woof.
As heartbreaking as this situation was, it made it crystal clear that my mother is not a safe space for me. Reality is harsh sometimes. Knowing she truly doesn’t care about my feelings reminds me of a phrase she’d use growing up. She’d ask us what we wanted for dinner, and if one of us said “I don’t care,” she’d say “You don’t care, you don’t get.” Well, guess what, Mother? You don’t care, you don’t get. You don’t care about my feelings? You don’t get access to me. Plain and simple. Not exactly the full circle moment you’d expect, but such is life, right?
