I'm happier when my mother's not around. Is that bad?
I had a dream I was in my grandmother's wake when my mother slowly approached and sat next to me. My whole body froze. I did not want her around. Immediately, I felt frightened at the possibility of her doing or saying something. Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard that I have learnt to drown out since childhood. I felt on the edge, like I was about to be attacked at any time, but she ended up doing nothing. Still, her presence is enough for me to hold my breath.
Describing it like it is feels ridiculous and sometimes an invitation for me to gaslight myself. After all, how could a child fear their primary caregiver?
Children are supposed to love and run towards their mother. Go to them when they feel scared, and do not be the reason for the fear. Children are supposed to be relieved at the sound of their mother's voice, not shudder from it; feel comforted around their mother's presence, not be repulsed by it. I feel like I am breaking every biological design on parent-child relationships. Going against the very nature of what it means to be a child and a human feels rebellious and dangerous but also the only thing that is right.
When I worked as a teacher, children would get into all sorts of accidents – a bump on the head, a scratch on the knee, an aching bone – nothing actually life-threatening, but for a brain that is only in the early stages of its development, every pain, however small, feels like a grave threat. A crying child would come up to me; the first words out of their mouth are not "I need help" but "I want mommy". However, these statements are synonymous to a child, for a mother's love is essential to their survival. I sit there for a few seconds, in awe and confusion, that other children are naturally loved just like that. How could that be? The words that mostly echo in my head throughout my life are "I don't want my mommy." I snap out of it before I spiral in the middle of my classroom. "Mommy will be here soon," I respond and embrace that child with all of my heart, something in me slowly healing and resolving.
Sometimes I ask myself if it is my responsibility to change the course of this relationship. A small part of me wants to say yes because I am an adult now, capable of making my own choices. I can make it right if I try hard. Hold on, she will eventually change, but imagining myself doing that feels like an act of desperation, and I promised myself at 22, after breaking up with a verbally abusive man, that I would not find myself in that same situation.
Why is it that our parents get a pass? Most of us can spot red flags in a partner, the list of which seems to grow every year, but parents get automatic exemption. Your partner is a red flag when they shout at you, but forgive your parents when they do it to you. They are just acting out of trauma. Do not take any less than you deserve from your partner, but absolutely take whatever breadcrumb you can get from your parents, and be thankful that you have a roof over your head, and food on your plate. At least, you are not starving. At least, you have clothes. At least, they put you to school. At least. We are so content with whatever follows "at least". Is it so bad to want more? How badly I want to change this narrative.
Anyway, mostly it is a resounding no; I do not want the responsibility of changing this relationship. Twenty years of emotional neglect can leave one in a perpetual state of exhaustion. I have, for the most part, accepted the fact that this is the kind of relationship I have to live with, however unnatural it may be. I do not need anything from her now that I can sustain myself; cultivate all the love I was supposed to receive as a child; find acceptance and understanding within and elsewhere. At least, I would not shudder at the sound of my voice. At least, I will be content with my presence. At least, I will not fear myself. I can make it right this time, at least, for my own sake.
