When I was twelve, my mother accused me of rooting through her jewelry box and losing a family heirloom. Like every other young child, I loved playing with her costume jewelry, but it was only with her permission and while she watched me. I insisted I hadn't gone through her things. She didn't believe me and didn't speak to me for a week. I kept saying I didn't do it, and she would either ignore me or say in a very snippy and bitchy tone, “You know what you did.”
I would not apologize for something I didn't do. I tried everything I could think of just to get her to talk to me, but she was so mad and so positive that I HAD DONE SOMETHING WRONG and how dare I not own up to it and apologize. I felt guilty about something I hadn't done.
For almost a week, my parents and I sat at the dinner table in uncomfortable silence. My mother would ask my father a question about his day. He would ask me how school was. I would direct my answers to both, but my mother would just glare at me and keep eating. If I complimented the meal or asked her a question, she would respond with a death glare and a frown.
My father pulled me aside and questioned me about what had happened. I told him what she had accused me of and said that I hadn't done it. Thankfully, he believed me.
Over dinner a night or two later, we went through the usual ritual of her ignoring me and speaking to my dad. Dad asked my mother what I had done to make her treat me in this manner. “You always stand up for her. She knows what she did. She needs to apologize.”
“Pam, this has gone on long enough. I know our daughter. She didn't do this. You owe her an apology.”
She was silent for a few minutes. I wondered if she was going to lash out at my dad, as she would do when he stood up for me. After dinner, she took everything out of her jewelry box and found the piece she accused me of taking. She approached me after dinner and mumbled an apology. I suspected she was sorry about being pointed out for her behavior rather than accusing me wrongly. She would never have apologized if my father had said nothing. My mother held grudges like a queen when she believed someone had wrongly accused her.
I accepted it, but I didn't believe it. It was the first time this had happened; it would not be the last. My mother would lash out at me for things I did or said that she didn't approve of. She scrutinized and condemned my actions, words, and choices. My mother often compared me to my more studious friends, asking why I couldn't be like them.
When it became apparent that I would have to repeat ninth grade (I had already repeated kindergarten) I was told how embarrassed she was and why I wasn't ashamed that I would be almost twenty years old when I graduated from high school. I kept trying to explain that I was going to a new school, and no one would know. “Well, you will know. You should be ashamed of yourself!”
Along with the trust issues, I couldn't confide in her. It wasn't worth it once I figured out that she would use anything I said or did against me months, or sometimes years later.
My father passed away in 1999, and with that I lost an ally. My mother and I became closer as we dealt with our grief. She could still be hard on me, but for a while her tone softened a little.
My husband wanted to return to Chicago, where he was born. It was a chance to start over elsewhere. And it was an opportunity to get away from my mother. It helped but visits home often led to her falling back on old habits of accusing me of things I didn't do or reminding me of past transgressions.
She never showed this side of her personality to friends (hers or mine) and when she married my stepfather, my step siblings never saw this behavior. They all had a great relationship with her. They put her on a pedestal and hero-worshipped her. She made her snide remarks, criticisms, and judgment calls where no one else could hear. I remember the brunch my stepsisters held in my honor the day before my wedding. My mom spent the entire meal reminding me how I should behave. We sat at the table, and everyone kept looking at me, as if waiting for me to get up first to serve myself at the buffet. Twice I stood up, and my mother grabbed my wrists and hissed at me, “No! The host should be the one to get up!” Later in the meal, I asked the server for a glass of wine. Under the table, my mother swatted at me. “No! You're a guest of honor; the hostess has everything prepaid. You do not need wine!” I was forty-three and still being told what to do. I could never please her, no matter how hard I tried. My step siblings often said how much she loved me and said how proud she was of me. To some of them, I bit my tongue. To others I replied, “She saved another, darker side just for me. She never let you see that part of her personality.”
It wasn't all gloom and doom. My parents are both responsible for giving me my love of reading. Like many kids, I often read under the covers at night with a flashlight, long past my bedtime.
She taught me basic cooking skills I use today. I learned how to prep meals and to cook and freeze meals for later use. Her organizational skills would put Martha Stewart to shame in the way she could plan out dinner parties. Lists existed regarding menus, invitations, plus timetables pertaining to food preparation.
My mother had a green thumb and could get a bouquet to last over a week. She always had flowers planted by season in the front yard.
We never had a mother-daughter relationship that many of my friends had with their mothers. While the saying “you can't miss what you have never had” is true to a certain extent, I've always wondered what could have been. She passed two years ago. I don't miss her. And while I am free; I am still dealing with the fallout. I still feel like I am not living up to her expectations. My self-esteem and self-worth are still drowning in the deep end of Lake Michigan. I threw them a life jacket. I hope they can hold on for a while.