A Life for a Life

My mother planted her voice deep inside my mind. A voice so obnoxious and strident that my autonomy collapsed into a dark corner. She taught me that love was synonymous with abusive control. She mentally imprisoned me to behave only in ways that appeased her. Her love, kindness, and care would vanish when I stepped out of line. Poof! Gone in a cloud of her cigarette smoke. For thirty years, I was chained to her every desire. Each decision I made, person I dated, or friend I had was all for her approval, her favor, her love. In her eyes, if I truly loved her, I would live my life for her. A life that she never got to live. A life that was stolen from her.

She never had it easy. No woman really does. Some women are abused, beaten, raped or molested, abandoned, gaslit, indoctrinated into religious or patriarchal agendas, used, thrown away, not seen, misrepresented, or simply disregarded as nothing. Some women, like my mother, endured all of them and more. To say her life wasn’t easy is an understatement. She spent her youth trapped under the guise of a happy, obedient daughter. Like the good little Catholic girl she was, she kept the secrets of the men who harmed her and watched as her mother looked the other way. She cleaned her brother’s rooms so they could play sports and galivant the ways boys do. The box she was born in was small and shrunk down with each passing year until all that was left was a speck of dust.

She played by her parents’ rules for years until, one day, she made an unforgivable mistake. A mistake that brought shame and embarrassment to the family. They closed their doors in her face with no money, nowhere else to go, and no one to help her. Into the world came a baby born of hate. Houseless and destitute, she gave him away in hopes that another could give him the life she could not. It was the most selfless act of love my mother ever enacted.

Determined to regain her parents’ love and approval, she returned with a gift: the mistake had been taken care of. In return, she asked for a place inside her family’s home. Life resumed, but the love she received was abusive and conditional. She was welcome if she played by their rules. Accepting the terms of her mental imprisonment, my mother dedicated her life to pleasing people who could not be pleased. Nothing was good enough. Nothing was appreciated. Nothing was given to her except grief and disappointment. Imagine her delight when she fell in love with someone who needed to abuse her to feel like a man. Abuse that she gladly took in exchange for another shot at being someone’s mother. It wasn’t long before I was on the way into a cycle of generational abuse.

For a time, they were happy. At least, that is what I am told. My father was gone before my third birthday. Perhaps it was for the best. My father was a troubled alcoholic, burdened with PTSD he valiantly gained as a marine in the Vietnam War. With no help from the government or family, there was no hope that he would recover. The world perpetuated the stigma that mental illness made him lesser than and undeserving of help. Like many others battling demons, she lacked the resources to combat her own mental illness. How could she help him when she could barely help herself? Just like that, she took me and a suitcase to a shelter and escaped physical violence. We never saw him again.

Nevertheless, she failed to protect me from herself. I was put in harm’s way because my mother, like many women, was conditioned to believe that her purpose in life was to have babies. Her purpose was to take care of her children and the man who gave them to her. But who was she if that man was useless? Who was she if she was a single mother? Who was she if she didn’t comply? The ridicule and judgment poured in. My grandparents were embarrassed by her and rude to me. It was my mother’s fault that her family was broken. It was my fault that her life had not gone according to plan. Someone had to pay.

For thirty years, she made me believe everything was my fault. Her voice became my voice. I carried her actions as a guide on how to love others. I hurt people. I lied to them. I manipulated, gaslit, abused, and even tormented some. All in the name of love. It wasn’t until 2017 that I realized my mother was abusive. One last horrific incident, and it was as if she broke my chains herself. The cloud of control began to dissipate. Bleeding, crying, and afraid, I locked myself in the other room. It was the look on my cousin’s face that finally made me register the abuse I endured. It caught me off guard. It made me question everything. Was my mother a narcissist? Was she cruel? Was she wrong? Was she abusive? The sight stung my eyes. That was the last time I saw my mother.

Six and half years have passed. All this time, and still, I am not healed. Her voice was so loud that it took me years without communication to finally hear my own voice. And do you know what I heard? I heard the little girl inside of me who just wanted her mother to love and accept her for who she was. I heard that I deserved better than what she gave me. I deserve kindness, and so do those around me. I deserve to trust myself and the people in my life. I deserve real love and didn’t have to get it from her.

Separating from my mother was the most complex and difficult decision I have ever made. I didn’t know it then, but cutting her out was my first act of self-love. It led me to therapy, where I began to undo my generational trauma one excruciating tangle at a time. I might be on a healing journey, but each step is a double-edged sword that opens a different kind of wound. The further I get from her grasp, the more I love myself, but the more I love myself, the more I understand that it was not her fault. She never stood a chance.

No woman is free. No woman is born outside of a box. We all carry the chains of oppression. The world is against us. As if that wasn’t hard enough, my mother was ruthlessly abused mentally and physically. She was shamed for making mistakes. Her mother called her crazy for having depression. My uncle convinced her she could pray away her mental illness – that therapy made her weak. They made her fear education and replaced her mind with indoctrinated ideas. None of which embodied love.

My mother will not take accountability for her actions because she does not know how. Six years of silence, and not once has she asked me why I won't speak to her. For this, I forgive her. What I cannot forgive is how her abuse has weighed me down, held me back, and confined me. If she did her best, it wasn’t good enough, even if oppression and abuse made her the monster she is. In some ways, my mother is the strongest woman I know. She had to raise me on her own while going to night school with little to no help. She survived horrific abuse, assault, and psychological warfare. Underneath her callous exterior, she is funny and kind when she has the capacity to be. She is generous and forgiving when she wants. I love my mother despite all that she has burdened me with because the world forced her into an inescapable cage from birth. I believe that my mother loves me in her own way, but she should never have been a parent. Not all women are meant to be mothers. Not all mothers nurture.

I love her because I accept her for who she is, even though she will not grant me the same. I love myself because she will not. I love others because no one deserves to feel the hate my mother has felt. I love her from thousands of miles away, years of silence between us. It is the only way I can love her. The moment I let her back in is the moment I stop loving myself. If I stop loving myself, how can I love her? How can I love anyone? I choose love. I choose safety. I choose to work on myself so I can live a life free of abuse.

My mother may have stolen my childhood, but she cannot have the rest of my life. If that isn't love, I don't know what is.