It's like stalking but less fun and more invisible...

So.... a year ago I was planning a wedding and my escape plan from my mother. I still can't figure out which one was more stressful... Lately, she's everywhere. Not physically. I don't think she will ever be that ballsy. I dream about her. I think about her. I question my decision to stay away from her. I hate her. I love her. I whine that it's not fair that I got the shitty mom while my brothers got the nice, sweet, sacrificing mom who thought the sun shined out their collective ass.

I've had a lot of people remind me these past 10 months that this woman I've walked away from, is my mother. I've never forgotten that. I've been told I need to forgive her. I need to get over it. I need to hear her half of the story. I don't want any of that. I've spent my life hearing her half of the story - she's the victim. My father was a drunk and a pot head, my first step father was physically violent (which I have no memory of - when he left in the back of a police car, with me standing in my Garfield jammies, I thought I had done something wrong. Especially because once he got inside that car, I was alone with one of my brothers and no grown ups were there. Safe.) and the following one was "The biggest mistake of [her] life". Her parents made her become a nurse when all she wanted was to be a music teacher. Everything was done to her so that no one would see what she was doing to the small girl behind her.

I continue to tell people, "yes. she is my mother and she should have known better than to treat a small child like she wasn't worthy of being loved." No one wants to hear that. I've even flipped it and asked them, what if this weren't my mother, but an abusive spouse? Would you want me to leave? Would you want me to take my son and run and find a safe place where this person couldn't find us? How the hell is this so different?

She's everywhere right now. I think the thing that bothers me the most is wondering what my life could have been had I been encouraged and loved and nurtured and cherished in the way that my brothers were. I think I would cut that bitch if I met her. Or I would be eaten up with jealousy to the point of insanity. I hate how filled with envy I am. I hate it because I would never, could never wish my childhood upon another child. And then I realize that my reasoning is that another child might not have been strong enough to handle it.

I am strong. If there were an emotional Iron Man competition, I would beat the living hell out of almost everyone I know. I would win. Granted, I don't even feel like I'm a strong person. I deal with the aftermath and fallout of my childhood on a daily basis. My go-to response when something happens is to apologize, blame myself for it, and privately tell myself that if I weren't alive, nothing like this would have happened. My anxiety levels are off the charts to the point where even discussing going out and finding a job throws me into panic attacks and crying spells. I can't sit with my back to an open room without having to focus on my breathing. I've walked out of a coffee house because my usual seat, in the corner armchair, was occupied. If I'm so strong, why the hell am I so scared???

I hear her voice in my head at night. Never saying anything, but always implying a dare. "I dare you, Sunshine. I dare you. Do it. " I stand each day on this precipice and always look down wondering if someday, I will finally do it. Just to shut that bitch up.

Not so quick update

To explain what happened to me as a child is difficult. I have fractured memories and bottles upon bottles of anger and hurt about them. When I was really little, it was easier. I was more pliable and I could worship my mother and believed she was the greatest thing in the world. Things took a turn though. I don’t remember exactly when that was. I don’t remember if it was a single moment in time or if it was gradual. I remember her last marriage ending and feeling responsible for it and becoming more resentful of her for it, but then I remember something that happened earlier for just a second and then it fades away into the mist. Did she start disliking me because I gained weight or was it because I was on the cusp of puberty and she didn’t like it? I honestly don’t know. I used to tell people that she and I were either far too different or far too alike to get along with one another, and maybe on some level that’s true, but not true enough to excuse what she did.

The best way to explain it is in the scraps of information I have from her childhood. She told me that she was responsible for her brothers and keeping them out of trouble or she would get in deep trouble herself and she told me that things, at several points in her young life, got so bad between her mother and herself that she nearly moved in with her aunt, my grandmother’s sister. That’s all I have to go on, but it’s enough to know that I am not the first daughter in my family to have been subjected to narcissistic abuse.When I came out a girl, I didn’t stand a chance at being cared for. I was a “fix it” baby, meaning my parents conceived me to fix their marriage. Neither of them will admit it, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that if they were divorced when I was barely a year old, there were major problems long before I stumbled along.

My early childhood was good. I had all the toys I wanted, within reason. I had two brothers that let me play with them, sometimes. I had a mom who would sing to me and let me sing with her. My infancy was not that good. My first memory is of shouting and crying and screaming all around me. My oldest brother hiding me behind this God awful ugly chair in the corner and kissing my forehead and then nothing. When I asked about it, I was rebuffed, repeatedly, until finally she told me that my father was beating my other brother and she was trying to stop it. Paul, the oldest, knew it was his job to make me safe and he did. When I asked why that was such a huge priority, I was told that my father had once hurled me across a room (as an infant) because I was crying. Honestly, it was a good call on her for making the decision to hide me. These memories and incidents are why I rarely drink. I will joke about it, but my father’s alcoholism is a huge deterrent in my drinking life. When they divorced, things got better. The only really bad memories I have of that brief time included my two trips to the hospital, once for hypothermia because my step father had left me in a bathtub with a window open in the middle of winter and again when nearly I nearly drowned in a hot tub. The only reason she took me the second time was because there were a lot of people there and my aunt insisted I go. When I became of school age, things started to get worse.

I haven’t ever really been all that lucky. I joked for years that the last time I’d ever won anything was in kindergarten when we played musical chairs before Christmas break, and to be fair, I killed it. Seriously. I was the bomb at musical chairs. I can’t really remember much about that period of my life. I remember the smell of the art room at school. I remember being a sort of pet to Paul’s friends. I remember Brian hating me and beating me up on a regular basis. I avoided him when I could and whenever I went crying to my mother, I was told I shouldn’t provoke him. I should just learn to walk away and be the bigger person. This wasn’t a concept I could grasp at the age of 5. I don’t think I grasped it until I was in my late teens/early twenties. That was a constant in my childhood and adolescence though. Brian hitting me, kicking me, pulling my hair, making me cry, making fun of me, calling me horrific names that no woman, much less a child, should be called. I hated him for years. HATED him. I remember being so excited when he was a senior in high school because I knew he’d be gone after the school year was done and I wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore and maybe, just maybe our relationship would improve. The funny thing about it though, is that when my mom lost her job and moved up to Michigan (leaving us behind), our relationship improved. We stopped fighting. We started getting along. We were able to cooperate and co-habitate with one another. We were friendly. Which has made me wonder what in the hell she was saying to him about me. Triangulation is an enormous feature in my relationships with my my brothers. Since I stopped talking to her in January my relationship with Paul has gotten so much better, but I will get into that in a bit.

I wasn’t denied the basic human needs for the most part. I had food, clothing, and a bed. I had toys and books. But I don’t know if I would say I had love. I had something resembling it, but the memories are so foggy and unreliable. I remember getting in major trouble for playing with my mother’s make up, but I remember her taking care of me when I had the chicken pox. I remember playing by myself a lot and always feeling like I didn’t belong. My first suicidal thought happened probably around the time I was 5, 6, or 7. I had a recurring dream about horrible goblins living under my bed that would stab you with a machete if you slept on your back. When you got up in the morning, the machete was still there and the people were wandering around just expressionless because they were dead. Weird, right? I remember most of all being jealous of her residents at the nursing home. She was so tender and sweet and loving to them. I started faking sick on a regular basis when I was in third grade. I wanted her to take the time to care for me like that. Most of the time, when I was sent home, I walked home alone and curled up on the couch feeling empty and alone. I hated everything about my life. Everything. My mother chalked it up to hormones, but I was barely 8 and I didn’t get my period for another 3 years. Hormones my ass.

I don’t remember ever being reassured about things either. I remember feeling insecure all the time and jealous of how easily things came to my brothers. I remember being fascinated by things, but never encouraged. The piano was put in Paul’s room so he could practice whenever he wanted, but it was off limits to me. I wanted to be him by this point. I wanted to be as perfect as he was. I wanted to be encouraged and reassured and nurtured like he was at every turn. I wanted all of it, but I never got it. When I was in middle school, she started a job that involved a lot of traveling. She would be gone from Monday to Friday, usually, and while Paul was in town, he was at the university, and my aunt and uncle were in town, but they weren’t particularly fond of the idea of their girls spending time with me. So instead, she hired some lady she had once worked with to check in on us once a day. Otherwise, we were on our own. For perspective’s sake, I was 13 or 14 and Brian was 16 or 17. Now I realize that she should have had CPS called on her, but no one really got into anyone else’s business. Instead, I collected mothers. Women who were strong and kind and loving, but I always was well aware that they were never mine.

Paul and I used to somewhat get along. We had a weird relationship though. As a single mother, my mom used him as a secondary authority figure – like a father figure almost. I liked him because he would call Brian off when he started to get “too rough”, and I use that term lightly. Too rough in my house meant that blood was drawn. I didn’t like him because he would never really have fun with us. Pillow forts were too childish and music was more important anyways. Granted, he is 6 years older than me. Things between he and I got bad when I got older. He tried to deter me from music, which in hindsight, I wish I had listened. He tried to keep his role as an authority figure long after it’s relevancy had waned. It never helped that my mother was always praising him and his efforts and how wonderful he was and how great it was that his friends were always over and how personable he was and etc etc etc... She never once said anything remotely close to that for me. I was supposed to be her. I was supposed to be the musician she never got to be. I was supposed to stick it to her parents (in a matter of speaking) and I was to be everything she wanted to be. She wanted to be a singer, I majored in it, but Paul was the one who became the musician she wanted to be. She sent him, multiple times, to Europe to study or compete. He became an organist, a pianist, a harpsichordist, a composer, a conductor, and a very well respected member of the musical world. I didn’t.

In my family, both in the home and extended, I was a punchline. Little Aimee who couldn’t keep her clothes on at the age of two. Little Aimee who had horrible temper tantrums and would slam doors. Little Aimee who was too loud. As I became a teenager, my sexuality became something everyone was afraid of. Not because they didn’t understand bisexuality or anything like that. Most of them didn’t know I liked girls until Sara. I was a young woman. I developed early, which for some reason was reason enough to pigeon hole me as a tramp by the time I was 15. I was poorly supervised as well, so of course, I was going to whore around. In my 15^th year, I had two boyfriends and one boy I loved desperately and tried desperately to forget. I broke up with one of them because he moved to quickly for me and I broke up with the other because I didn’t want to be someone’s property. I made decisions for myself and I was forced to grow up far too quickly. I became the head of a household when I was 15 and my mother moved to Michigan. She was home on weekends, but that didn’t change the fact that I ran the house and did everything but pay bills and grocery shop. I got my older brother up and off to school every morning. I made dinner and made sure homework was done. I did all of this and when I had the audacity to break my thumb in gym class, she threatened to move me up to Michigan with her before the school year was out. Never mind that there was only 2 weeks left to school and she’d been gone since February. My aunt and uncle that lived in town, by this point, were barely talking to us, and whenever I called to talk to my cousin (who was only a month older than me), she was never allowed to talk to me. I was dangerous and not to be associated with. When I started seriously dating people, I dreaded bringing them home to meet my family. I’ve only let them meet 2 people I’ve dated and I will never put Sara through that. I love her too much.

I don’t trust a lot of my memories though because I’ve been gaslighted. Whenever I brought up a memory that didn’t fit or had an argument with my mother, she rewrote history and presented it as fact. I wrote her a letter about a year ago, addressing the things I saw wrong in our relationship and how I wanted to fix them. I received a letter back telling me that I had stated months previously that I had admitted that all of these concerns were baseless and pointless and that if I continued to bring these things up to her, she would only speak with me about them in front of a licensed therapist. She said it because she knew I would back off and I did.

I don’t know if this explains anything, or if writing it was even necessary. I know that it’s a big part of why I can’t trust people, why I have anxiety issues, why I can’t handle harsh criticism, why I get defensive very quickly. I didn’t write this for sympathy or advice. I wrote this because it’s who I am. Not everyone gets the sweet wonderful dream come true family. Probably no one thinks they do, but there are people who do. My Sara is one of them. She came from a loving sweet family, with two parents who not only loved each other, but who adored each other and the babies they had together. I envy that childhood with my entire heart. I envy it, but I would never trade my childhood with someone else’s. I would never make someone else suffer just so that I could have it easy. I hate that I hate my mother. I hate that I love my mother. It’s unfair that any child should feel this way about their parent, but I get to stop it for my child and if others come along, them as well. Most people, understandably, get really upset when I tell them I won’t speak to my mother. They had loving mothers. Yes, they get angry at her from time to time, but they have never had to genuinely question if she loves them. I constantly asked myself “why can’t I just be good enough for her? Why can’t I just be enough for her to be proud?”. Now I’m asked when I will talk to her again. My honest answer is never. I can’t forgive her what she put me through because she chose to. I can’t forgive her because her apology will never be sincere and she will never be remorseful. I can’t forgive her for not even giving me 24 hours of happiness after my wedding before she treated me to the worst fight I’ve ever had with anyone. Instead, I'm happy. I have a wife and a son and a dog and a cat and they're all I need. She has a family that is nice and I'm trying to let them love me, but it's hard. I'm cobbling together a family from my closest friends. All of it is hard, but God help me, I'm trying. 

But she's your mother!

I've heard this a lot lately. Every time I hear it, there is a pang of guilt that hits me like a ton of bricks. She is my mother. She tried to be a mom sometimes, but mostly she was my mother. She gave me life and most of the time, I'm grateful for that. But she's also someone who has caused me so much pain that I've genuinely wondered if suicide is the only way to make her happy. I have done everything I can to make her happy. I've made myself smaller. I would speak when spoken to. I was honest, unless I was terrified. I made myself smaller and I tried to be what she wanted, even, no, especially if it meant not being me. When I got frustrated or tired of the charade, I snapped at her or got argumentative. I got great grades in school. I worked my ass off - all of it trying to make her proud or happy, but something was always wrong. I was subtly compared to my siblings unfavorably. I was blamed for things I couldn't have done. I was thrown under the bus and no one stopped it.

I smile wistfully at these people because their moms probably made time for them. They were proud and made sure you knew it - not just because you made them look good, but because you had done so many wonderful and unique things that made you who you are. You had support and someone to cry to if things got really bad. I didn't have that. I collected surrogate parents. I relied on friends who weren't capable of parenting me because they were just kids themselves. I get jealous sometimes, but I recognize that that is about me and that I am genuinely happy for people who didn't have to go through what I did. It doesn't mean I don't go to sleep at night asking, 'why me?'.

It's been a month since I last saw my mother and had the worst fight I've had in 9 years. On the 4th, it will be a month since I told her I couldn't be a part of her life anymore and that I didn't want her in mine. She tried calling me this week and, because I blocked her number, left a voicemail. I didn't listen to it. I made Sara listen to it for me and she said my mother sounded like nothing had happened. I want to email her and ask her what part of my email did she not understand. I can't though. I have established boundaries and if I break them, even to reestablish them, it shows her that they are weak.

I've been considering getting a phoenix tattoo to remind me of what I am. I am rising from the ashes and while the current version of me isn't pretty and is a complete mess, if the legend is correct, I will emerge from this more beautiful than before. I think a reminder would be nice right now because I keep forgetting that this is just the messy stage.

Yes. She is my mother and because of that I thank her for creating me and for carrying me, but I do not thank her for a childhood of being her scapegoat, of her ignoring abuse, and feeling inadequate. I have had to create my own family. It is small and it is a patchwork quilt of people, but at least they give me the love and support I need without demanding restitution for the inconvenience. They let me love them in return too and that's the part I like best. I get to walk away without guilt. I get to emerge from the destruction and ashes of my life up until this point and I get to try again.

In which I admit all and walk away from my mother

I got married last month. It's not legally binding because my state wouldn't recognize it anyways. It was beautiful and I could not have asked for a better day for it. I was beautiful. Sara was beautiful and we and Liam cried tears of happiness and excitement. It was awesome. I thought this would make a lovely preface for what is likely to be a rather upsetting post.

I was an abused and neglected child. I didn't even realize it until this past September, when someone pointed out to me that my mother is a narcissist. Outwardly, our family is wonderful. My mother is a triumphant single mother who raised three children on her own. We make a point not to share the family secrets and to hide the cracks in the veneer. But things were not as great as we put on.

I was a happy child, but somewhere along the road that changed. I became depressed. I felt like I was worthless, fat, ugly and horrible and that was before I hit puberty. Looking back, my mother put a lot of pressure on me to look a certain way. She used to tell me she used to be fat too. I later found out that at her heaviest she was around 135 lbs. At my lightest, I was 145 lbs. So, there's that. I wanted to please her, so I joined her on her one meal a day diet. I immediately went to my room afterwards and exercised it off through sit ups, leg lifts, planking, push ups and anything else I could imagine to get those calories off of my fat ass. When I went away to college, it took me three months to start managing another meal without feeling guilty.

When I entered adolescence, my, now diagnosed, mental illness started to make life unbearable. I became enormously depressed and, because my mother was never around, I relied on my friends to help me through. My mother first got a job that required a great deal of travel, so she got an old co-worker to check on my brother and me once a day. Then after my grandpa died she moved up to her new job and left us behind during the week. It was nice of her to let me finish out the school year, but I still felt abandoned. I grew up a lot during those months and when I moved back in with her, there was a lot of fighting because I wasn't willing to give up my freedom. Eventually, I just gave in because I didn't want to fight anymore. I asked her once to go see a therapist to deal with the crippling depression and was told "You don't need therapy. What can you tell a therapist that you can't tell me? If anyone in this house needs therapy, it's your brother". In middle school, when she got called into the guidance office because the counselor was worried I was suicidal, my mother was outwardly concerned. When we got home she angrily asked "So, do I have to put you on suicide watch now?" There are days I wish I had gone through with it. I was always an inconvenience. Later, when I became an adult I was hospitalized twice for suicidal behavior. The first time she was upset because she felt Liam was being hurt by it. The second time, it was at an inconvenient time for her. *sigh*

I wish I could say it was always bad because it would make everything easier to take, but there were genuinely good moments. When I first got my period, she was kind, understanding and caring. She took me out of school for a grown up girls day and we shopped and had lunch and it was fun. She took me to my first opera and occasionally we would go see plays together. But these were moments. Everyday life was unbearable and for years I have felt guilty for hating her and have been trying to fix the situation. I wanted a real mom who was proud of me for my accomplishments instead of trying to make them about her.

My wedding was the last straw though. The ceremony was fine. She behaved very well, but once pictures started, it became about her. A friend offered to take professional pictures and they turned out beautifully. I asked my mother to help with pictures so we could get some candids that were fun. *sigh* She pouted and got angry and as soon as she could get me alone, she told me how "that girl" had shoved her out of taking photos. I didn't want to fight and I sure as hell wasn't going to tell my friend to stop taking photos. I avoided two more arguments that evening. The next day, she picked the worst fight we've had ever. The last time we had a fight that even came even somewhat close was in 2005, but this one left them all behind. I would post all the gory details, but they aren't important. I said things I'd been wanting to say and she denied everything before screaming false apologies at me. I began sobbing and apologizing for everything I could think of. For being born, for not being a boy, for not being good enough, etc. I hadn't planned on getting into it with her. I'd been avoiding this argument for months and she finally got the fight she was looking for. We went on our honeymoon after taking a little time to regroup and after Liam was picked up when it was over, I let her know that I was done. I have walked away from my mother and while I'm working through the guilt of that, I want to know what it feels like to like myself. *sigh*

I get how bad this sounds and I get that it's bad to walk away from both of your parents. But remember, not all parents are nice and not all parents are supportive. I was the scapegoat and watched my golden child brothers have a fantastic childhood in comparison to mine.

Enough about you, let's talk about me

I learned about a new personality disorder this month. Not one that I have, but rather one that explains the whole of my existence. Ever have that one person who you constantly try to please over and over and get no where? Or if you succeed, they latch on to some other deficiency that you may or may not have? Yeah. That's what we call a narcissist. It's always about them and screw the rest of you assholes. Kind of like Julia Roberts.

I wasn't thrilled to realize that I'd been raised by one, but it was one of those moments where every thing just slipped right into place. I'm working through it, with the help of a therapist who was genuinely ecstatic when I told her I had figured it out. There's quite a large community of "survivors" out there. I don't really see myself as a survivor. I just see it as I had a kind of shitty childhood when it came to my emotional upbringing and I'm trying to figure it out. Sad thing is, I wonder if my mother had a mother just like her. It certainly would explain a lot.

I've been jumping between anger and sadness with this. I'm angry because of what happened and sad about what didn't happen. Or so it would seem thus far. Eventually, I will get through this grieving process and thankfully, one of my family members has been kind enough to let me adopt her as a kind of mom figure. I've needed it and the only problem I've had with it is worrying that I'm imposing or annoying her. But apparently, that's normal for daughters of narcissistic moms. Today, I'm neither sad nor angry. Today, I pity her. I try to make excuses for her, but it helps no one. Things were the way they were and now I have a mountain of emotions that I've supressed that desperately need to be dealt with. Today is just one day and I'm only one person. It will be okay and one day, this will be behind me. I just wonder what that will look like.