My mother and I had an ambivalent relationship. She had always stated she wanted her children to be close to their father, as she had never been. I believe her. But she had no concept of boundaries, no idea what a healthy relationship was. And the child in her was so needy she could not help but see me, and often treat me, as competition.
I don’t remember her being outwardly mean to me growing up. She “just” chose my sister over me. Just what this favoritism meant and how deep it was rooted in resentment did not fully reveal itself until we started dealing with the incest.
One time, I remember telling my mom what was surfacing up for me, a memory concerning my uncle and father. As I spoke, I got a sudden rush of nausea and went to the sink to throw up. As the realization of what happened to her daughters sunk in, my mother said, her voice full of emotion, “Oh, poor Vernice.” That was my sister.
When she saw the look on my face, she said, “Oh, you too.”
Another time, my mother stated, “Well, at least you had him.”
She wasn’t a monster, though at times, she could act like one. I’m not making excuses for her. It’s just that as I get older, I am becoming more understanding and more compassionate towards the great burden she carried within her soul, the stone she wore around her neck and with much fewer resources or opportunities to heal from them, as we have today.
My mom died angry at me. She died when I was pregnant with my third child. In a discussion, I had let her down…again. I could tell she felt betrayed. She got “that look” on her face. Laying in bed in the nursing home, she turned her back to me before I left. I can still see the side of her face; that pained, upturned look that said she probably wouldn’t speak to me for a few days.
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