Expectations, for good or for bad, can make all the difference.
Not loved for who I am
When I was a child, my mother was not the warm and cuddly type. By the time I was 3 or 4, I realized she would not keep me safe in the world. As I shared in my book, she believed the outcome was all that mattered. Decades later, she told me that whether I enjoyed my childhood wasn’t the point. Whether I liked her didn’t matter.
One of my earliest memories is of her taking me to a swimming lesson. I was about 3. As you walked into the locker room, there was a wall sized window into the pool. The water line was above the window. I could see children swimming under the water.
As I watched them, fear washed through me. I didn’t know how they did it, but I was sure I couldn’t hold my breath for so long. I did what any illogical preschooler would do—I threw myself onto the floor and cried.
My father cheated, got involved with drugs, and hurt her. Yet, somehow, I loved and wanted to be like him. By the time they separated (I was 6) my mother saw something of him in me.
She spent the rest of my childhood trying to mold my personality. Mostly with negative reactions. I felt she would destroy me if I wouldn’t change. I realized her love was conditional. It only made me love and long for my father more.
My stepfather recognized how difficult the dynamic between us was. He told me he was going to make sure my mother wasn’t so hard on me. A grownup saying it was unfair was so validating. Better yet, it was a promise he fulfilled.
When she could no longer control the outcome of who I was, my mother seemed to lose interest. By high school, she largely ignored me. Luckily, I was too scared of life to be anything but a good kid. I had no curfew and little supervision. I preferred it that way. Most of the time.
The in-between time
I moved out of the house 3 days after high school graduation. I was still a child in so many ways. I went to live with my father, something I had been waiting to do since the judge gave my mother custody of my sister and me.
That did not go well. By the next summer I knew I could not, did not, want to stay there.
My mother and stepfather allowed me to come home. We knew I was going to go to nanny school in the fall. I slept on a pull-out sofa in the office. It was very clear that it was a short-term situation.
My mother’s behavior had changed. She was more relaxed. I was an adult, and no longer her responsibility. With my little girl’s outlook on life, she frightened me. I expected her to hurt or reject me. Still, I desperately wanted her love and approval.
Then I went to a psychiatric hospital after a huge breakdown. Suddenly, my mother was loving and supportive. She even asked me if I thought it would disable me for a long time. She wanted to know if she should purchase health insurance for me. It was something.
I spent the next 12 years in a marriage my mother didn’t approve of. She lent me money when I really needed it. She was even willing to help me afford college to become an RN. I worked out a budget. She agreed it was reasonable. I did one semester at the community college. Then my job ended unexpectedly. College got put aside.
In the end, it felt like she only liked me when I had something wrong or was in a painful situation. We were close in the 3 months I was in a homeless shelter after I left my husband. She seemed enthusiastic about anything I had to do the hard way.
For example, when I was looking for a room to rent, there was a family with a room in the middle of the house. It didn’t have a window or air conditioning. Somehow, she felt it would be a great place to start over. Fortunately, I didn’t feel that desperate to please her.
Our relationship now
Somewhere along the line, my mother seemed to lower her expectations of me. She seemed pleased with everything I did. Perversely, this did not make me happy. I wanted her approval, of course. But I wanted it because I was living up to something. Not because she no longer expected me to do anything of note.
In the last few years, my mother and I have forged a new relationship. Part of it is because I am no longer trying to get mothering from her.
That was a hard one. I think everyone who has had a difficult relationship with a parent still longs (in some small place inside) for their parent’s approval and love.
Just like my mother let go of molding me into a “good” person when we moved in with my stepfather, I had to let go of the fantasy of a nurturing, loving parent. Once I could do that, we could meet on neutral ground.
My mother and I speak more often than ever before. I suspect that is hard for her. In the past, she seemed overwhelmed if we talked more often than once a month.
Part of it is that my mother doesn’t have many friends. Another part of it is that I need another person to talk to. Whatever the reason, my mother is my friend. At least for now.
We have both let go of the mother child relationship and do our best to function simply as two adults with so much history. It is nice to have her as a friend. I enjoy having someone interested in what is going on in my life.
Ironically, these changes have allowed me to love my mother more than in the 50+ years before. I am not fully convinced she could give a mother’s love. That is so sad. However, we have something. A something that is far more than nothing.
Winning Over Shame 