I dedicate this post to my mom, a woman whose pain became my own.
I had a challenging relationship with my mother. She was depressed throughout much of her life. And an alcoholic. That, of course, doesn’t wholly define her, though, sadly it’s the dominant remembrance I have of her. She died over ten years ago.
My mom was a fantastic gardener. She loved nature and had a deep affinity for animals. She was a voracious reader, took great pride in her home, celebrated holidays with attention to small details, loved decorating, and playing scrabble. It occurred to me in this writing that I inherited all of that from her. That realization in itself is a gift.
On the other hand, I don’t have many positive memories of my mom. I cannot recall her ever reading to me or tucking me into bed at night with gentle kisses on my forehead. I have no childhood memories of my mom telling me she loved me. At no point can I recall my mom telling me how awesome I was, how beautiful or intelligent or essential I was. In the place of these practices are memories of her anger, frustration, and impatience. I recall moments of disdain, but mostly a void: empty, blank space where a mother’s love should reside.
Over the decades, I have found forgiveness. I’ve also come to understand that inside of my mother’s neglect and lack of warm mothering was a hurt woman. My mother had sorrows, wounds, and demons of her own—feelings that must surely have utterly overwhelmed her, for she was never able to expose them.
But here’s the thing—we can’t overlook our feelings in a quest to forgive other’s behavior. As adults, we may not necessarily know how to broach the subject with our parent, or even want to—knowing that it may cause a rift, or create a sense of guilt inside of them. We don’t want to hurt our parents, but taking responsibility for other people’s feelings is not helpful to our healing; in all likelihood, it will hinder it.
The powerful lesson we must learn is that we aren’t responsible for managing other people’s feelings. Each of us must master the path toward ownership of the feelings and emotions that emanate only from within us. Our behavior, and the way we treat our loved ones daily, absolutely impacts them. It has an impact on their emotional regulation. There is a subtle distinction: I am not responsible for your feelings, but how I treat you, my behavior will impact your feelings and emotions. We have a tough time owning that in our culture. That subtle distinction negatively impacted my willingness to broach more difficult conversations with my mom as an adult.
As children, we don’t have the language to deal with the complexities of human relationships. We don’t know how to deal with mental illness or the genuine pain our parents might be feeling, let alone the myriad emotions we experience and pain experienced in the parent-child relationship. And that’s a tough thing. Because developmentally, as children, we shouldn’t be giving our parents a ‘pass’ when they put their own needs in front of ours, especially when neglect or generational trauma is the outcome, but we don’t have a choice. As children, we shouldn’t have to feel responsible for our parent’s feelings or behavior. That is a recipe for co-dependence and dysfunction.
Though I have implemented many practices for well-being over the years, I often feel that I have stumbled through parenthood. While there are other factors at play (my marriage disintegrating, for one— a post perhaps for another day), my very strained relationship with my mother created dynamics that were difficult to shake when I began my journey of motherhood. The model that my mother provided required diligent, consistent perception, along with powerful self-awareness. While I told my kids daily that I loved them, read to them, tucked them in, showed them unconditional acceptance, and engaged powerfully with them most days, I put my emotional needs ahead of theirs on more occasions than I care to admit. And while it’s difficult to pinpoint exact traumas or even encourage them to admit that my behavior might have hurt them, I believe that it did.
The tough part, though, the thing that has made my healing all the more difficult and protracted was my mother’s inability to talk about our relationship, because healing happens inside of conversations. And transparency. And a desire to heal. But sometimes we aren’t capable of going there. And my mom wasn’t able to. So instead of growing with her, I’ve had to climb that mountain alone–through shame, regret, incapacitating self-doubt, and fear. That’s not a journey I want my kids to traverse—at least not alone.
In the spirit of healing, I have asked my children to tell me what they need from me. And I have maintained an open heart, open mind, and healing intentions to traverse what I anticipated would be painful conversations with my children. Instead, they have turned out to be some of the most inspiring and heartfelt interactions. Healing happens in those conversations. For me, my kids, and the spirit of my mother.
Mothering hasn’t always been a smooth journey. Forgiveness isn’t a once and done kind of deal—at least not in my world. I’ve found it to require repetition. Lather, rinse, repeat. And there are moments—not many these days, but there are moments— that I feel angry that I can’t just let it go. My mom is no longer here, and there is no point in clinging to memories that reinfect old wounds. Those moments require the most gentle compassion and forgiveness with myself that I can muster. And so, I write. I write about the pain. I write about my doubts. I write about my regrets and sorrows. I write it all down. And I submit it to the Universe. And I trust that my writing and the conversations with my children will continue to heal those stubborn spots.
I will continue to heal for us both, mom. I love you. Rest in peace.
Peripheral View 