I often passingly joke that my mother is the original Tiger mommy. In reality, Amy Chua couldn’t hold a candle to the kind of perfection that my mom demands. Anything less than her standard is not worthy of her love. I rarely venture to elaborate what having a mother like that entails, keeping it closely guarded because I had always been afraid that it would lead to my own unraveling.
For an adult child of a mother with an (undiagnosed) borderline personality disorder, the days leading up to Mother’s Day dredge up memories of childhood traumas. Instead of love, honor and respect, feelings of anger, hurt, and shame gradually rise to the surface. This year, it also marked the anniversary of when I finally gave myself permission to love me for who I am, even if my mom never could.
You see, my first Mother’s Day was the day that my mother and I decided that it would be best to part ways.
My mother came to visit me on the premise that she would help me recuperate after childbirth and help take care of her first grandchild. I had my misgivings, unable to comprehend the idea that my mother would actually be capable of nursing me.
I suggested that they come visit six months after the birth, thinking it would be enough time for me to have fully recovered and make traveling with a baby much easier. But something happens during pregnancy (pregnancy brain) and one starts developing lofty aspirations and grand delusions about motherhood, the world and the people who’ve always disappointed you all your life. Tickets (at our expense) were booked six months in advance to arrive one week before my expected due date, which coincidentally fell right around my birthday and Mother’s Day.
Unfortunate luck would have it that my son came one month too early so when my parents arrived, I was barely three weeks postpartum from a traumatic premie birth. In the kind of reality my mom lived in, that translated to having fully recovered from childbirth and being able to give them a whirlwind guided tour around Europe.
I had this unyielding mommy intuition that I shouldn’t be taking my premature son jet-setting around Europe. Powered by my new mom inner strength, I stood by my resolve.
My mother became progressively antagonistic. She would drift in and out of fits of passive aggressive rage, spending the day catatonic in bed, and then vocalizing suicidal idealizations in some uninterruptable language.
She spewed out her all too familiar classic vitriol, “You are completely worthless because you were born a girl. You should be miserable because you are a woman. You are a horrible person. If I told the world how you really were, no one would love you.”
Eventually my mother calmed down, sincerely apologizing for her behavior. But the damage was done.
Now I am a wife and a mother. I can’t forget the sheer terror and confusion in my husband’s eyes or the uneasiness of my newborn – both freshly baptized into the craziness I spent my adulthood trying to escape.
So I gathered all the strength I had inside and told myself that it was enough. I had enough. I let her go.
I knew that it would probably be the last time she would talk to me and as far as she was concerned, I was dead. No amount of cards and flowers would be enough for her forgiveness because I had made the ultimate betrayal – because I loved being a woman, a mother and most of all, being myself.
I don’t know whether or not there will ever be a reconciliation between me and my mother. But I do know that I will never grant her permission ever again to make me feel small and ashamed for a non-existent transgression. I started loving myself right then and there on that Mother’s Day. I may never have my mother’s love and approval, but I have myself, my son, my husband, and all the love that the universe is going to give me. I will take, unashamed, as much as I can, and give back in return.
I’m a mother. Hear me roar.