Our relationship with our mothers drives all others.
When I read this in a book a few years ago it struck me as an exaggeration, one of those smart phrases that condenses complicated wisdom into a smug sound bite. I was in counseling then, trying to figure out what part of the difficulty I had with my mother was my own doing, and put the question to my psychiatrist. Is this really true? I wanted to know. Absolutely, she said.
I spent a lot of time thinking about that. I had already started to understand that I wasn’t the same person with my mother that I was with my children or my friends or my husband. I felt off-balance, not entirely genuine. My confidence and assurance slipped away from me, or came out in the form of brittle bravado and a need to be right. I wasn’t really sure of my own identity when I was around her, and didn’t much like myself, either. My other relationships reflected the true me, I thought.
Naturally, the bond I examined first and most closely was the one I had with my daughter. My relationship with her was much better than the one my mother had with me; I didn’t try to impose myself or my views on her, or use the force of my intellect to intimidate her. I was more transparent with her, more honest, more accepting of her differences. Didn’t take credit – at least not overtly – for the person she was. I avoided making comparisons, stepped back from pointing out our similarities. Distanced myself from her, let her make her own decisions. In short, I tried to do things differently, tried to be different – tried not to be my mother. I almost managed to convince myself that she didn’t really need me because the last thing I wanted was to need my own mother. And was brought up short by the fact that my relationship with her was most definitely being driven by the one I had with my mother.
I had seen how hurt my mother could be by her expectations of love from her sons, by their insistence on going their own ways, by their sometimes infrequent attention. My role, as perceived by me and given motherly encouragement from time to time, was to compensate her for what she didn’t get from my brothers. On the other hand, I schooled myself to accept but not expect from my own boys, to take exactly what they were prepared to give without yearning for more. But my mother’s perception of loss became mine, and I secretly feared that the same thing would happen to me. And so my relationship with her influenced those I had with my brothers and my sons.
It hardly seemed possible that my most intimate, adult relationships could be affected by how she and I were with each other. These were stand-alone partnerships, above the fray of family dynamics and mostly exempt from its history. My connection to boyfriends, then a husband, then a lover had nothing to do with how I felt about my mother. But what was I doing by taking over, dominating many of these so-called partnerships? Showing how very competent and capable I was, hiding my self-doubt so that I could be, not just the equal of my mother, but better yet. It took a sensitive man to make me recognize what had been my pattern. He suggested that I did not have to prove anything to anyone, and in that perceptive remark was the re-making of my most important relationships.
None of this was my mother’s fault. She was not the introspective person I am, and preferred not to discuss nor even to examine, as far as I know, her own issues with self-esteem, of not having lived up to her own billing. I used to wish that she could just let it all go, those layers she had wrapped protectively around herself, so that I could really get to know the very human and imperfect woman underneath. But she did the best she could, and her best was driven by love and a desire for her children to be happy. Isn’t that the same for all of us?
There are stories I read by women whose mothers nearly destroyed them, who manipulated them with cruelty, or failed in their mothering through ignorance or their own inflicted wounds. The imprint of their experience is indelible and devastating. My story is not theirs, but only a small examination of the enormously significant role we take on as mothers.
With thanks to Friko for having planted the seed for this post, and with admiration for the brave and excellent writer of Shattered Into One Piece.
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