Have you ever noticed how all the evil villainesses in the fairy tales are always stepmothers and never the female biological parent? It seems there is some sort of cultural taboo, even in our own crazy modern world where the very definition of family has gone topsy turvy, against speaking or thinking ill of your mother. A father may be abusive or a jerk or abandon his family and no one thinks to doubt the tale, but what happens when mommy is the villain? Those nearest and dearest to you make excuses or don't believe you or think you are exaggerating. And you know what? They are probably right, after all, a mother couldn't possibly do that to her child. So I'll just go back to blaming myself, hating myself, and knowing that I deserve it; it's not her, it's me.
But mothers are as human as anyone, having a kid doesn't magically make them goddesses, above mortal failings. After we brought our son home, he was crying and wouldn't be soothed and I remember sitting down with him and crying too, because there were such strange feelings swirling in my heart that I could put no name to. It was at that moment I realized what a mother's love was and was nearly in a panic that I had never felt it from my own mother. What was wrong with me? But it wasn't me, it was her. I've spent my entire life blaming myself, making excuses for her, and pretending everything is okay. I've quit pretending, I've quit blaming myself, but how do I talk about this to anyone? Even those closest to me did not believe it at first, of course, I hardly believe it myself.
It is both freeing and desperately sad, for I look back at my blighted childhood and every special day that wasn't and wonder what it might have been like to have a mother, a happy family, to surround me and celebrate with me. I can't bring back the past, but I no longer need to let her cast her dour shadow over all my future celebrations. It is strange to grieve for something that never was. I will never cry at her funeral, but I will mourn now for the mother I never had. It is easy enough to explain grief when a loved one has died or you've suffered some other obvious loss, but how do you explain this sort of pain, this sort of loss? Because it isn't possible, I'm sure your mother loved you, it was only a misunderstanding, right?
No, it was not and I am only finally admitting it, even to myself. And it won't take much to push me back into that fog-shrouded mire of self-doubt, self-loathing, and knowing that above all mortals, I deserve to be most miserable because I am so awful even my own mother can't love me. Do your sisters, wives, daughters, and friends a favor, if ever they tell you that their mother was abusive: believe them, support them, listen without judgement or giving banal advice, just listen and believe it is possible. It is time to stop pretending. It isn't your fault. No one deserves this, most especially a child at the hands of their mother. But there is also hope, healing, and a future, whatever your past, but the first step is admitting it and to stop blaming yourself.
