I was talking to my mother last night and she asked me how I was doing. I don’t tell my mother anything of real importance. I have been having a really hard time sleeping in the last few weeks because of a personal tragedy and Daylight Saving. I told my mother I was having trouble sleeping because while it seemed personal, it really wasn’t. In other words, it was safe to share with her. Or so I thought.
Later in the conversation (this was around 10:30 p.m. my time), I said I was really tired. She said somewhat derisively, “It’s only 10:30 p.m.” I’m known for being a night owl who rarely goes to bed before 2 a.m., so she probably was saying it because of that. But. As I said, earlier in the conversation, I had spent five talking about how I was having such a hard time with sleep (which I pointed out again). It was clear to me that while she asked me how I was doing, she didn’t actually care. It was just the script she had to follow before she could dump her problems on me (again). She has parentified me since I was eleven. It hasn’t changed. When I am at my most emotionally stable, I can deal with it by viewing her as a sad old woman and not as my mother. I realize that’s a lot of qualifiers, but it’s what I need to do to get around the fact that my mother doesn’t love me as a person.
I came to that realization in my thirties or forties (so later than I would have preferred).Up to that point, I assumed my mother loved me because she was my mother. That’s what she was supposed to do, right?
Side tangent: It’s sad/funny/ironic that I never thought my father loved me, whichwas easier to deal with. It’s like any kind of ism in that I’d rather someone hated me to my face than be nice to my face and nasty behind my back. It’s better to know where you stand with someone than to labor under the impression that were anything but a bigot.
It’s the same with my parents. My father never professed to love me nor showed it–until my mid-twenties/early thirties. My relationship with my parents was horrible during that time for many reasons. My father was here after traveling to a conference somewhere in Canada, I believe.
I was taking him to the airport, and we got into a fight (as usual). I don’t remember exactly what it was about, but I think it had something to do with my mother. Or I may be mixing up our arguments. He did tell me once that the thing that caused my mother the most pain was that I was no longer a Christian.
I looked at him and said if that was her biggest problem, she was living a pretty easy life. I was offended and affronted, to be honest, in part because my father was not a true Christian. He converted because of my mother and only cared when he was in trouble and wanted God to get him out of it. He actually told me that’s what he liked best about being a Christian–telling God his problems and then being able to forget about them. In other words, he has a very childlike view of religion (which is not surprising).
We got heated, and he demanded to know if I was appreciative of all the things he’d done for me (monetarily). I said no because I was angry, and he said, “Well, then, why should I love you?”
And my heart broke into a million pieces. Even though I knew he didn’t love me. Even though I thought I had made my peace with it. To hear him ask that question with such disdain and contempt broke something inside me. But it also gave me clarity that I needed. Yes, my father was a self-absorbed narcissist who thought only of himself. Yes, my father believed everything was transactional and had to benefit him somehow.
He called me after landing in LA. to tell me he had arrived safely. At the end of the call, he hesitated and stuttered out that he loved me. I muttered it back to him and hung up the phone.
I was numb. I didn’t believe him. And I felt guilty that I couldn’t give him an ounce of grace. I mentioned it to my therapist at my next session. I said that it was clearly a big deal for him to say it, but I was numb to it. She said something to me that I have not forgotten.
“Minna. An experience can be two things at the same time. To him, it was a big deal that he was able to say it. To you, it was a small deal beacuse he has not shown you love all your life.”
I know it sounds trite (and obvious), but true wisdom often does. Of course we would experience it differently and come at it from radically different points of view. Of course it would be a big deal to him and nearly no deal to me. Of course I would feel numb to it because it was not enough and it was elicited under duress.
Now, my father has severe dementia. He does tell me freely that he loves me. Do I believe him? No. Well, it’s more complicated than that. I don’t believe he loves me as a person. He can’t because he does not know me. I believe he believes he loves me, though. And that he loves the entity that he thinks of as his daughter.
Does my mother love me? No. Again, you cannot love someone you don’t actually know. She loves the idea of a daughter who has no personality of her own. No wants, needs, or desires. My only purpose in her life is to be her emotional dumping ground. That’s it. She dislikes almost every aspect about me, and she doesn’t listen, really listen, to anything I say. She asked me about my friends, and then after I said a few things about them, moved back to my father.
It’s as if she knows the script for how she is supposed to act, but she con only follow it to the letter (and not the spirit). “I am supposed to ask Minna how she’s doing.” So she does. But she doesn’t realize she’s actually supposed to listen to what I say and actually care.
That’s the part that is missing. The part where she actually listens and cares. that’s been the way of our relationship all my life. I don’t expect it to change.