This is a personal story about having a bad relationship with my mother. I had assigned myself to write about how I feel once or twice a week. I have ADHD RSD and it's difficult to navigate all the feelings I have at one time. This is a part of my therapy. It's incredibly important for people who have discovered that they have ADHD and/or RSD/ED to try to work on their emotions before popping a pill. The pill isn't magic, your problems don't disappear. If you have a difficult time handling your emotions, like a negative comment can ruin your day, a pill can't save you from experiencing this. The first step should be on working on your emotions, knowing your triggers, understanding how you work, and you need to discover self-awareness (even if you think you are self - aware)
I'm telling you these are the steps to take to help you from falling into relapse. You will keep repeating this process until you handle the one thing that can knock you off your feet.
The societal perception often condemns adult children who choose to distance themselves from their mothers, unfairly labeling them as rebellious, immature, or troubled youth. This cultural stance is the mother I wish I had, all mothers are inherently loving, that motherhood is instinctual, and that maternal love is boundless and unwavering. We should acknowledge that not mothers have the best intention for their daughter. I find myself in shock a lot of the times of how easy it was for my mother to turn on me. It really has had a negative effect on my life. I ask myself how could a mother be so hateful to their child? I think of all the shows I watched of parents who lost their children, who would give anything for one more day. I don't have that in my life and it makes me incredibly sad I didn't get a mother who at least cared a little.
The weight of this societal judgment is palpable, etched on the faces of those who hear my story with shock and disbelief. Behind closed doors, whispers and speculation swirl as people attempt to piece together what transpired to drive a mother and daughter apart. I find myself cast as the villain in my own narrative, even in the eyes of those who should offer understanding and support. It's a lonely and isolating experience, as friends and acquaintances distance themselves upon hearing tales of familial discord.
Strangers unknowingly become privy to the fragments of my story, spreading gossip about my fractured relationship with my mother. Their curiosity and judgment serve as a constant reminder of the pervasive societal expectation for maternal love to triumph above all else, regardless of the reality of the situation
The painful truth of having an unloving mother is often too difficult for even the most well-intentioned individuals to comprehend. Recently, I found myself recounting a heartbreaking chapter of my life to a friend from high school, someone who had shared in my past adventures during a semester abroad. As we reminisced about our shared experiences, I shared with her the painful memory of having to abruptly leave Europe because my father fell gravely ill some 50 years ago.
My friend listened intently, unaware of the depth of pain and betrayal that lay beneath the surface of my story. I explained how, despite rushing back to the United States and spending every day in the hospital lobby during my father's final week, my mother callously denied both me and my father's sister the opportunity to bid him farewell. He passed away without the chance for me to express my love and gratitude, leaving an indelible void in my heart.
My friend, coming from a loving family and now a mother and grandmother herself, struggled to comprehend the magnitude of my mother's actions. She searched for explanations, suggesting that perhaps there was a valid reason behind my mother's cruel decision. "Maybe she was protecting you," she offered tentatively.
But I knew the truth all too well. It wasn't protection my mother sought; it was control. She wielded her power with calculated precision, denying me the closure I so desperately needed out of spite and malice. "No," I replied firmly, my voice tinged with bitterness. "She was guarding her turf. She knew how much I longed to see my father, and she denied me that privilege to inflict maximum pain."
My friend fell silent, grappling with the harsh reality of my story. In that moment, words failed to capture the depth of my anguish, and I found solace in the quiet understanding that sometimes, the truth is too painful to bear.
Even those with the most open minds often struggle to confront the harsh reality of an unloving mother's tale. Recently, I found myself confronted with a painful reminder of my mother's cruel manipulation. It was a memory that cut deep, serving as a stark reminder of the depths of her deceit and betrayal.
My father's sudden illness and subsequent coma plunged our family into turmoil, and in the midst of our grief and confusion, my mother saw an opportunity to further her own agenda. She concocted a sinister scheme, accusing me of stealing my father's prescription medication in a bid to divert attention away from herself. It was a calculated move, designed to maintain her control over my father, even as he lay unconscious and vulnerable.
As my father's health deteriorated, my mother's grip on reality seemed to falter. She was terrified of the possibility that he might wake up a changed man, free from her influence and control. And so, she went to extreme lengths to ensure that I remained isolated and ostracized, even going so far as to poison the minds of my father's closest confidants against me.
I was left reeling from the weight of her betrayal, grappling with the disbelief and heartache of being cast aside by those I had once trusted. The pain of rejection cut deep, leaving a permanent scar on my heart—a wound that would never fully heal.
Yet, despite the agony of her actions, my mother remained unmoved by my suffering. She showed no remorse for her cruel manipulations, instead deflecting blame onto my father and absolving herself of any responsibility. It was a pattern of behavior that had defined our relationship for far too long—a cycle of abuse and manipulation that left me feeling like nothing more than a pawn in her twisted game.
As I reflect on the countless instances of hurt and betrayal inflicted upon me by my mother, I am struck by the realization that her sole purpose in life seemed to be to use me as her personal punching bag. Her narcissistic tendencies left no room for empathy or compassion, as she continued to prioritize her own needs and desires above all else.
In ten long years, not once did my mother choose to acknowledge the pain she had caused me, let alone take steps to repair our fractured relationship. It was a bitter pill to swallow—a painful reminder of the mother-daughter bond that was never meant to be.
The exhaustion of enduring constant insults followed by unreasonable demands became unbearable. It perplexed me how my mother could profess hatred towards me one moment and then expect me to fulfill her every whim the next. Her laziness knew no bounds, as she shamelessly exploited her illness for personal gain over the course of a decade.
It became glaringly apparent that my mother lacked basic social skills, unable to grasp the concept that incessant self-pity and victimhood quickly wear thin on others. Her constant refrain of "Poor me," "What about me," and "My daughter took advantage of me" served as a relentless reminder of her insatiable need for attention and sympathy. Never once did she make an effort to help herself, always banking on the hope that someone else would provide for her every need.
She had no qualms about asserting that I should be financially supporting her, even going so far as to punish me when I couldn't afford it on my own. Her sense of entitlement knew no bounds, leaving me feeling suffocated by the weight of her demands.
No matter how hard I tried, I could never seem to satisfy her endless complaints and criticisms. She would nitpick every detail, finding fault in even the smallest of gestures. Her constant stream of lies and drama created an atmosphere of tension and unease, driving a wedge between me and my loved ones.
Despite my best efforts to distance myself from her toxic influence, I found myself trapped in a never-ending cycle of manipulation and deceit. She would go to great lengths to sabotage my relationships and undermine my autonomy, leaving me feeling isolated and helpless.
As her health deteriorated, her demands only intensified, leaving me feeling like a prisoner in my own home. She refused to accept help or consider alternative living arrangements, insisting on remaining bedridden and dependent on my care. Her refusal to take responsibility for her own well-being only added to my frustration and despair.
In the end, I realized that I could no longer bear the burden of her unrelenting negativity and toxicity. Despite my best efforts to escape her grasp, I found myself trapped in a nightmare of her making. It was a painful realization, but one that ultimately set me free to reclaim my life and pursue my own happiness.
It's a painful reality to acknowledge, but my mother's struggles with her mental health are undeniable. Despite my hopes for her recovery and growth, she continues to perpetuate the same destructive patterns, seemingly unable or unwilling to learn from her past mistakes.
It's disheartening to witness her repeat the cycle time and time again, each repetition serving as a stark reminder of her detachment from her own behavior. In her eyes, I am the scapegoat for her actions, a convenient target to justify her hurtful behavior. It's a narrative she clings to tightly, refusing to accept responsibility for the pain she has caused.
As I reflect on the years of disappointment and heartache she has inflicted upon me and my children, I can't help but feel a profound sense of sadness. She had the opportunity to be a loving mother and grandmother, but instead, she chose to prioritize her own selfish desires and destructive tendencies.
Her refusal to acknowledge the damage she has caused only deepens the sense of betrayal and disappointment I feel. Despite my efforts to forge a meaningful relationship with her, she remains closed off and indifferent, leaving me to pick up the pieces of shattered dreams and broken promises.
In the end, I've come to accept that I cannot change who my mother is or force her to confront her demons. All I can do is focus on healing myself and protecting my children from further harm. While the pain she has inflicted may never fully heal, I refuse to let her define my happiness or dictate my future.
I will always carry a sense of sadness for the mother she could have been, but I will not allow her to continue to hold sway over my life. I am stronger than the disappointment she has caused, and I will not let her brokenness define me or my children.
