She's Complicated (16th Post)

In the midst of my struggles with undiagnosed TBI, like with my Father, I labored to solve the puzzle of my Mother.

My maternal grandparents were immigrants from Czechoslovakia. My mom had 4 brothers and 4 sisters. Mom only shared a few stories concerning her developmental years. From her brief descriptions, it appeared her family operated in factions. Mom had limited and uneven contact with her family. As a very young child, I met the members of her family only once. My sisters and I called my maternal grandmother Baba, which was Slovak for grandmother. She was the only family member I saw more than once over the years. I never met my maternal grandfather, he died before I was born. Ironically, like with my father, there was an extended family interaction spotlighting the dysfunctional dynamics of my mother’s family. In my 20’s, my Baba died from a heart attack. I enjoyed and loved Baba, I was very sad to lose her. I told my parents and sisters I planned to go to her funeral. My younger sister Steph shared she also wanted to attend the funeral and we agreed to travel together. My mother stated she refused to attend. She said if she went, there was a danger she would “stand up in front of her siblings and tell the truth.” I asked what truth, she refused to tell me. Instead, she looked at me and said, “you can be MY ambassador to the family.” I replied I have no idea what is going on with you, however, I will not be your ambassador. You need to deal with your family yourself. My father and older sister also declined to attend Baba’s funeral. Of course, neither one said why. 

My uncles, aunts, and cousins were all gathered at Baba’s home. I was sad not to see her standing at her front door to greet me as she always did in the past when I visited.  My relatives graciously and warmly greeted me and Steph. I thoroughly enjoyed connecting with everyone. I found it so comforting to express my grief to them. Finally, I thought, I am going to have some semblance of a relationship with my relatives. For several days, there was a lot of support and camaraderie. I was so delighted to be among them. However, after my Baba was buried the atmosphere drastically shifted. My relatives discussed the fractures and factions in the family. I was stunned and saddened to realize my mother’s stories were true The tragic and disappointing moment was when they asked Steph and me to pick a side. Steph and I opted out of this disheartening invitation and thought it best to return home. We graciously said our farewell, expressed our well-wishes and left.

Like my father, I went to great lengths to establish a relationship with my mother. Dad’s puzzle turned out to be more straightforward. He clearly did not want to be alone, however, due to his mental health issues, he mostly chose to not bond with me.  Due to her mental health issues, my bond with my mother was more complicated. To this day, I am uncertain of her diagnosis, but she may have had multiple personalities or traumatic fractures. It’s hard to say since her mental stability fluctuated a lot. During my childhood years, the bonding was mostly reciprocal. However, her bonding waned daily in my teenage and young adult years. She was complicated.

Mom could be nurturing, amiable, social, but also mean and acrimonious. Concerning the latter characteristics, my father often referred to her comments by saying “she goes for the jugular.” For example, I waited three months to tell my parents my husband wanted a divorce since I was stunned by his request and needed time to recover emotionally. I knew notifying my parents would not go well. I was right. My mother’s response to my broken heart was “well he never loved you anyway.” I expressed my disappointment and hurt at her response and soon ended our conversation.

Mom felt superior to most people and she had to be the center of attention. She forbade the neighbors and her co-workers from using her first name. She demanded they address her by her married last name. Steph came up with a code name for mom - “The Queen Bee.” For example, my parents hosted my rehearsal dinner at their home. My friends who attended had to persuade mom not to sit in my place at the head of the table. She finally relented and sat in another seat. However, after dinner, she asked me to join her in the kitchen and berated me for “being the center of attention.”  I responded “this is MY rehearsal dinner and returned to make merry with my friends. For the remainder of the evening, she refused to join the celebration and stayed in the kitchen.

Mom was not very interested in my life or getting to know me as a teen or adult, unless if it somehow benefitted her. In my early 20’s, she had taken up sewing. She made work clothes for me. A lovely thought right? Well, yes and no. She refused to consult with me on styles and material patterns. Consequently, most of the clothes she made did not appeal to me. I told her I appreciated the thought and then would donate any unwanted pieces. 

Even when I was a child she rarely praised me for any accomplishment. I was in a ballet recital. I loved to dance, and my teacher told me I was a good dancer. After the recital, I asked mom what she thought of my dancing. She never told me. Instead, she proceeded to lavish eternal praise on another dancer in the troupe. I was so hurt, that I became cautious about asking her for feedback in the future. 

She did try and tutor me in long division. I appreciated the assistance. However, neither of us knew that from the undiagnosed TBI I had dyscalculia. Our tutoring sessions usually ended with me having a meltdown. She gave up. She was aware but did not help me with my inability to sound out words, my misspelled words, or my wacky pronunciation, When in college, I wrote letters to my parents. My dad never responded, however, my mother would cut out all the misspelled words, place them in an envelope, and send them back to me.

Mom sometimes acted erratically. In college, she came with me and my roommate to look for apartments to rent. We were walking down a street to look at a new place. Mom suddenly bolted down the street yelling back to us to hurry up before someone else got the apartment. My roommate was stunned and looked at me. I just shrugged and said, yeah she sometimes does crazy stuff like that, and to keep walking. I had learned over the years, that my mother’s strange behaviors at times, were no reflection on me. That made it easy for me to hold her, not me, accountable for her odd behaviors.

There is no good way to say this except for mom tried to seriously harm me twice. The first time, I was a freshman in high school. I came home from school to find her sitting on a step on the staircase that led to the second floor of the house. On the wall, was a crucifix. She had a large knife in her hand, which she pointed at me. She stared at me with such hatred that I froze. I was terrified any movement I made might be seen as a threat. She said she had been talking to Jesus. I truly do not remember what I said to her. However, somehow I got her to put down the knife. She started crying. From my frozen space and a safe distance, I said words of comfort. She calmed down. After a few moments of silence, she smiled and said she was going to the kitchen to cook dinner. She acted like nothing had happened. I felt it would be safer for me to also pretend nothing had happened. I escaped to my room and stayed there till I heard my father come home from work. I said nothing to my father about the incident, as I had learned by then he would not discuss her behavior. The second time, I was away at college. One day at college, I had some pineapple as a snack. Within seconds I had difficulty breathing, seeing, and hearing. My roommate was yelling that I was swelling up. The hospital was a block away. Somehow, we got there and the doctor said I had internal hives from the pineapple. After treatment and stabilization, before I left the hospital, the doctor told me to never eat pineapple again. He said if by accident I did I would need to get to the ER in under 45 minutes. I informed my parents of this new food allergy. That Christmas I came home from college. During dinner, my mom kept looking at me like she was sizing me up. Her stares creeped me out. She started asking me, every couple of minutes, how I was feeling. I was feeling a little off, however, told her I was ok. She then said I knew you were lying to me, I knew you were not allergic to pineapple - I put some in your food. I then realized I was more than a little off. My father said nothing. I was horrified as I realized the internal hives were starting. I was terrified as I knew no one at the dinner table would help me. Fear gripped my gut as I realized I was alone in dealing with the allergic reaction. Stating I was going to the hospital, I fled the table. I drove myself to the hospital only 10 minutes away. Obviously, I got there in time, and I am alive. Once stable I left the hospital. Flooded with feelings of sadness and rage, I drove back to my parent’s house. Upon my return, they were watching television and said nothing to me. I was not surprised by their lack of interest in my well-being. I was used to their neglect and my mother’s abnormal desire to always be right. I knew it was futile, and honestly, did not want to even attempt to discuss this incident with them. I told them I was leaving, grabbed my suitcase, and returned to the safety of college. After that incident, during holidays and school breaks, rather than visiting home, I stayed at college.  By this time in my life, I felt like an orphan and had learned how to fend for myself.  

There are many more challenges mom presented to me and many more stories to tell. However, I hope by now, you understand the extent of the complications in my relationship with my mom. I will end the stories about her complicated personality here. In her 80’s, my mother developed dementia. By then I had been through therapy and had created a relationship, that was not ideal, however, worked for me. Her dementia actually improved my standing with her. Even though she did not want to bond with me pre-dementia, she did bond with me post-dementia. She always perked up when I visited. The nursing home staff told me she would always ask them “when is that nice lady,(meaning me), coming back to see me?” She did not know I was her daughter. I was ok with that. I understood dementia, I knew she was suffering. This was not the woman I had grown up with. I could be caring and helpful. Like with my father, there were things she said and did I could forgive.  And like with my father there were things she said and did I will never forgive.  When people ask me about my relationship with my mom, all I say is it was complicated.

Since I had resolved my relationship with my mother in therapy, I was able to treat her with kindness and understanding. Like with my father, when my mother died, I did what I needed to do for the funeral and burial. I walked away from her grave at peace, knowing there was nothing left to say or do. I do miss that I don’t have a mom to miss. I rarely think about her. I am relieved I no longer have to deal with her. Apparently, she had a tragic upbringing which formed such a complicated personality. I hope she is at peace. Like with my dad, I do not have a lot of good memories of my mom. However, I will share one good memory, because this memory informed who I became. 

When I was a very little child, my sisters and I all had measles at the same time.  We were miserable. My mom had a large cushioned rocking chair she loved. Every day till my sisters and I were well, she spent hours and hours rocking and soothing each of us. We took turns on her lap and in her arms. I believe she loved us back to health. I can still see her rocking each of my sisters. I remember how wonderful it felt to be held and rocked. As children and teenagers mom was also attentive to our health. To this day, I love to sit and rock or swing. I think her actions around our recovery from the measles taught me how to nurture myself and others. I have spent three-fourths of my life trying to solve the puzzle of me. I have never given up on my mission. People tell me my actions and words showed dedication and determination.  I can see that and appreciate that others see it too. However, also like what mom did with our recovery from measles, I think I loved myself and my brain back to health. Just as developmental trauma can ruin a child’s life, never underestimate the wisdom a child gleans from life. I think the experience of being rocked and being loved was integrated into the part of me that solved the puzzle of me.