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).