Black Women Who Are Angry At Their Mothers

The first time I realized my relationship with my mother would never be healthy was at a young age. In my childhood home it was not about the emotional side of things. I don’t think I ever had an opinion that was taken seriously or encouraged. Through the past down abuse from those around me I learned to lean on myself. It was not like all kids at my age were having mother issues but mine seemed to stick on me like a heavy stench. It was like her negative thoughts and opinions traveled everywhere throughout my life.

The relationship between my mother and I was typical at first. I was always trying to find a way to connect with her. She never made it easy. I had to jump through hoops just for her to want to do anything with me. Deep down it hurt over the years to know there was not a real attachment. Her lies that pulled me a part never left though. Some days I would actually think she did not mean to hurt me but I knew that was not true. I think it made her lack of control seem less obvious that she would one day not be in my life. She tried to keep me as co-dependent as possible. I never felt like she would ever be a mother to me and in my adulthood I don’t think we would make great friends either.

I had to let go of how she made me feel. Even in those cold phone calls I still would hope for a glimmer of excitement. It never came with her though. I never would make her proud or bring her joy with my life finally taking off. It would always be about how she felt first and how she would decide to make me feel after. As a kid I never realized this was a form of abuse, as a teenager it was embarrassing, and when I became an adult it just made me angry. I could not believe after all the years of my life I was afraid to stand up to mistreatment.

I knew it was time to not allow anyone to treat me like a rotten tomato. I was the star of my show. It did not matter how many times a day I was told I would never amount to anything, I was lazy, or not pretty enough. I was no longer going back to the pain. I had to let the relationship go in the process. It was time to move on from the little girl without a voice. I had to tell people how they made me feel as I moved on from their hurts and wounds.

After the five years of no contact with my mother I learned that maybe this was what the relationship needed in the first place. The jealous conversations decreased in my life. There was no more belittling remarks left in my direct messages through social media. I no longer had to deal the gangstalking of family members who only like to see the drama unfold. This was a real relationship to me. At one point the relationship with her became the most important to hold onto. Just like most things in life sometimes good things come to an end. The masks finally fell off and people I once cared about were now revealed as enemies.

I never thought I would have an estranged relationship with my mother. I never thought I would ever discuss the terrible relationship that we once had. Now, my feelings just fly out of me with maturity. I am no longer afraid to lose relationships with people who only want to bring me pain. As a little girl I was the child with mother and father issues. It stuck on my reputation like paint on an artists fingertips. It was not going away with a wipe of my favorite ripped jeans. This had to be felt without having friends, family members, or addictive patterns to fix this problem. I had to go alone in a room and heal. I cried out to The Most High. I sang my favorite songs. I wrote a few poems. I did everything to release the anger and pain I felt for years because of this trauma bond.

It is the the most unnatural feeling in the world to not have a honest relationship with the people who gave birth to me. It made feel unbalanced, a little lost, and unworthy of love from another person. I had to understand it was normal to feel discontentment in the choices of my parents. I wanted to help black women who were angry with their mothers to let go of the pain. To acknowledge the trauma as a part of life that no one should ever have to experience. Once I realized it was not normal to be treated in that manor from my mother I started to search for people more real. It was time to heal from poverty, abandonment, and from traumatic experiences. No matter how much those who were the abusers wanted it to matter so much it did not.

Emotional, verbal, and mental abuse seems to not have an affect on person because no one can see those wounds. It’s when the child becomes older and starts to make decisions is when society can measured how emotionally competent a person really is in the community. For black women there are not many of people who care about our mental health. Black girls and women are known and encouraged to be strong.

I wanted the pain to stop with me. I wanted black girls and women to no longer feel alone. It was time to discuss mental health in the black community. I was tired of holding onto the words that could shape and the change the minds of the people around me. Yes, little me became big me. I became a mother myself. In that transition to motherhood I realized it was time to open up more about the stigma of black motherhood as well.

The moral of the story is I do not want any black girls and women to walk around hating their mothers because they did not believe in our dreams, they verbally abuse us, or were not in our lives. I wanted women of color to center their emotions, rationalize their thoughts, and articulate their feelings in a way that it helps other girls and women around them. Black women have always been at the forefront of politics and social justice issues since the beginning of time. It was now time for us to be in the forefront of black women’s mental health and change our communities.

Talk to your healthcare provider. Go out with friends. Write your feelings in a journal. Follow your dreams.

Black Women’s Mental Health Matters.