Mothers and Daughters (Part 4)

Until we take the time to explore the past of our present, we cannot fully comprehend the entirety of our formation. For me, looking back at my female bloodline and discovering a long line of women who had been abandoned in one form or another and how this shaped who they were as people, was an enlightening, if not disturbing, experience. 

I have always known the tragedy of my mother’s childhood. By the age of 7 or 8 I was already fully versed in the story of my grandmother abandoning my mother in the children’s institution, of the hardships and punishments mum had received at the hands of the nuns, and of how her mother had always denied her existence.

No doubt, my mother’s intention in telling us her history was to help my brothers and me comprehend how lucky we were to have a mother and father who loved us and cared for us, to be grateful for all things they provided. Raising kids is difficult, and parents use whatever methods they can to instil a sense of perspective and appreciation in their children.

But to a child who loved her mother more than anything, the thought of anyone causing her such pain is devastating. I knew I hated my grandmother long before I’d even met her. The sentiment only intensifying the more I learned of how cruelly she’d treated my mother through repeated rejections, insults and criticisms. 

At the time, I was unaware of a damaging parallel that had been created by my birth. In yet another attempt to gain the appreciation of her mother, my mother bestowed upon me the most hateful name – Irma. Thankfully, my mother’s devout Catholic faith pipped her need for maternal approval, and Irma was relegated to second place.

But the imposition of Irma’s ever-looming presence did not stop there. As a child, whenever I was disobedient or behaved in a contrarian manner, my mother was quick to accuse me of being just like my grandmother. And while it may seem innocuous, make no mistake, this allegation is loaded with grave implications such as selfishness, meanness, egoism, vanity, and cold heartedness. And that’s not even the worst of it.

How dreadful for a child to be told by their mother that they are just like the woman they hate most in the world. To this very day, my mother will inflict this dagger if we ever have cause to argue, unaware of how hurtful it is and how, even though I’m in my 40s, the blade is still sharp and the cut is deep. 

For years I’d endured this aspersion without any real understanding of the convoluted psychology behind it. And even after gaining such insight, the damage is irreversible, not least because it would require generational reparation, which is impossible.

My mother’s childhood abandonment triggered a myriad of complexes she has carried into her old age – anxiety, low self-esteem, a sense of worthlessness, depression, dependence, and a crippling fear of dogs are all neuroses that can be traced back to my grandmother’s one thoughtless error of judgement. Grappling with these unresolved issues my mother did the best she could, and, in all, it wasn’t that bad, considering.

But, as her only daughter, the psychological burden on me has been great. Carrying my grandmother’s name is more than a mere token of my mother’s desire to please her mother.

Having a daughter represented an opportunity for a do-over. With me, my mother wanted to create the kind of relationship she had always dreamed of having with Irma – one of those mother-daughter-bestie tropes that you might see on an American TV show from the 80s. She wanted love and affection and affirmation and acceptance and cooing and coddling and soothing and healing. But I could only give them in child size measure, if at all, and that could never be enough to fill the gaping hole in her heart. In her need for parental recognition, my mother unwittingly projected Irma onto me, so when her subconscious need for validation remained unsatisfied, I became the culprit; being the surrogate parent is a big ask for a kid – too big - and this inevitably has affected our relationship, even to this day.

I have to come to terms with the complexities resulting from the mothers and daughters in my female ancestral line and the impact these have had on me. Fortunately, despite a serious lack of example, my mother succeeded in raising my brothers and me with unconditional love and support which is ultimately all a child needs from a parent. And that, in itself, is remarkable.