Yesterday I had my therapy session and rather than talking about the fact that T didn’t message me back, we spent 50 minutes talking about my mother…AGAIN!! Honestly, it’s become a bit of a constant thing and the more I talk about her, the more angry and confused I become. And while he would never come out and say it directly, I’m starting to believe that T really doesn’t like her at all. And I’m not sure why, but I feel kind of bad about it.
What can I say about my mother without sounding like a broken record? I don’t feel like she really loves me. I don’t feel like she really wanted me. I feel like I am an inconvenience to her, that I can’t do anything that she would approve of and that I am not equal. I feel…less than; unworthy; defective.
T and I discussed different ways I could try to communicate with her from coming right out and telling her all the awful reasons I’m in therapy to writing her a letter. I don’t really know what to do at the moment so I’m still thinking of my options. T wants to know what’s the worse things that could happen–she could leave or cut me out of her life? He wanted to know exactly what she could do now that I’m an adult that would really matter to me.
What do I say? Is it wrong to feel like if she left me it would feel devastating? I don’t know if I should feel that way, but I do. Even though she’s a mean, hurtful mother, it still matters to me what happens to her. There is a part of me that still feels like I need her around. And there’s something about that which disgusts me. What do I owe her really? Other than giving birth to me, has she really done anything much to make my life better or easier?
I don’t know why mothers–even toxic ones–remain so important to us. What are we looking at them to provide to us even as we become adults? Is it the hope that one day we’ll actually feel like we matter? That they’ll love us for just being us? When does it stop mattering? When they die? Does everything get better once they’re gone? Or does the emptiness and longing just keep growing?
My mother is a broken woman. Nobody has to tell me that. I know it. Deep down in my soul, I feel it. She was born from a broken woman and married an extremely broken man. She gave birth to someone who is trying their damnedest to put the shattered brokenness of themselves back together.
It would be nice to have a mother who could be the glue that helps the pieces stick. Or even to have a father be a substitute. But I’m starting to learn that it just isn’t going to happen.
And it hurts.
I’m not quite sure what to do with all of the hurt. I’m still looking for the glue. The only thing I know is that she can’t help me.