Fighting the Same Demons (Mom)
There is not much to say about my mother. She is quiet; often likes to keep to herself. When around family, one will see her finding a spot in a corner - her efforts to not be noticed or bothered. Unlike my father, she never pulled me aside to talk about her past. What little I know came primarily from moments of frustration and exasperation. It might be safe to say, some of the following might be speculation. I hope that as I write Part 2 of this trilogy, I am careful to portray my mother in an honest light; nevertheless, still honoring her. My relationship with her has been marred, confusing, and a source of many scars. And yet, it’s only been in the last 10 years that I realized the pains and frustrations I have incurred are only an extension of her own. In the present time, my mother and I have a healthy relationship, but I still hold onto my reservations. Not that I don’t trust her, but I have realized that the pain she portrays as “bridge under water” is merely pain left unspoken. And pain left undiscussed grows gout in the soul.
There is something about my mom. She is caring, creative, hospitable, protective, can be silly in that fun sort of way. But...there is something about the way that she makes sure she takes care of things, never let any one of us do chores, never let her help cook, the anger she felt even over the smallest of matters, that I have found it’s as if she is trying to prove something. She wouldn’t tell you. No questions should be asked, because to do so would mean that you have not forgiven the past. However, I can’t help but feel like she doesn’t feel like a good enough person.
She was the second born in 1956. After minutes when her sister came, she arrived crying in the world. It was a normal upbring, I suppose. The father went to work while the mother stayed home. It was a strict Lutheran home. The faith was evident primarily in the mother (my Oma), as she read her Bible and prayed; hymns were a staple. Mom did mention, however, that Opa had a periodic temper. Oma at one point had a nervous breakdown (though, I don’t remember the cause). Normal middle-class, nonetheless.
My mother and sister were forced to dress identical, though they never were. That tradition fazed away as the girls moved into high school. With new freedoms came excitement, but it also came with comparisons. My mother struggled with her weight most of her life (in fact, my Oma put her in a corset when she was a kid); my aunt was skinny. My mother, quiet and reserved and had few friends; my aunt was popular (and the shared yearbooks were primarily addressed to my aunt). My mother was an average student; my aunt was quite academic. In the eyes of society, my aunt, though not my mother, fit the status quo.
My mother managed to run away from her upbringing. She never accepted Christ as a youngster, and though she never dated in high school, she was married to her first husband by the age of 21. By this time, she lost some weight - and was the build that I presently have - and was happy, it seemed. She met the guy from high school, but she admitted one time, that she married him to get away from home. He was a perfectionist, however. He liked everything to be new. After 13 years of marriage, they divorced. She has never seen him since. She joked at one time, “If I burned the toast, we would’ve divorced earlier.” I wonder how much she was joking, and how much she was telling the truth. Either way, I wonder if she doubted her value as a wife.
Not long after, my parents met at a party. Thereby, I was soon introduced into the picture. My mother came from a religious family, but no grace was given. Whereby, my father was shown support, my mother was cussed out by her own father on the phone. He sure knew how to put the “shun” in conviction. Thankfully, Oma and Opa came to visit when I was born. With the sight of their first and only granddaughter, they were won over. Seeing that my dad stayed by my mother’s side, they were eventually able to forgive and love my father as well. All that aside, I wonder if she was ashamed as a daughter.
All three of my mother’s pregnancies were life-threatening. I suffered a stroke before I was born; Sandy had been miscarried; Danny had to have an emergency C-section or he would have died. None of these things were able to be prevented by my mother’s will. Looking back, she was very much an overprotective mother. Guarded, she made sure something was 100% safe, before venturing further. Her poor heart. I often pushed ahead anyway...because, as much as she cared for me, I translated it as fear. And I didn’t want to live in fear. I wonder if that fear was rooted in a shame that she could not protect the ones she loved most, right when they were in the care of her own.
The family dynamics were a thing to be beckoned for, as I became a teenager. We fought on a daily basis. Big things, little things...it didn’t matter. Mom and I were at each other’s throats. It got so bad that my mother would say aloud, “It’s my fault. I’m a bad mother.” Less frequent, but still occurred, the disagreements my parents had...her reply was, “Nevermind!” Often, she recloosed to a silent demeanor. End of story.
What do these scenes from my mother’s life have to do with me chasing the same demons? What I have found is that my mother, in her effort to protect me, tried to make sure that I wouldn’t worry. It is a common go-to. When we don’t want fear in our children, we take it upon ourselves - don’t tell the entire story - sing a lullaby until the monsters leave. And yet, looking back on my own story...I can’t help but see parallels. The congruence of fearing that I am never enough. The self-loathing for my body, based on demands on society. The shame in failing. The fear that if I don’t control, something will go terribly wrong.
My mother wasn’t depressed. But she was emotionally distant. Perhaps that was her way of saving the pain of anxiety that her mother fought all her life. When angry, she gave the silent treatment. When upset, she’d shut up. Even in her enjoyment, she wasn’t present. Not to dog on movie lovers, but when you watch TV and never communicate with your family, it communicates that you have no interest in that person. I spent a few years believing my mother didn’t love me...and yet, the truth is, she did. She didn’t know how to show it in the way that I needed it.
All she knew was to protect, guard. Her thought process was, “If it happened in the past, let’s not drudge it back up. There is no need to bring it back up.” Which sounds good at first. But here’s the problem I’m seeing. When we don’t talk about our past, the past has a knack for leaking into our future anyway. When we are silent about the skeletons in our closet, the devil has an open door to attack our children. It may be through a generational curse (i.e. anxiety and the need to control things, from Oma to my mother to me). It may take a different form, but it still shows its face. Another aspect is the hidden dialogue in the tone in conversations. My mother doesn’t speak about her pain, but if I said something that reminded her of it, there was a tone of bitterness. And to this day, if I remind her of those buttons, there would still be bitterness.
I am more like my mother than I realize. Whereas, I heard my father’s story and was clearly able to see what not following Jesus would lead to, my mother’s hidden story opened the door for the devil to wreak havoc in my life. Though a Christian, I struggled so hard to believe that God’s Word was true for me. My mother has been in the same boat. She accepted Christ after Sandy died, but over the course of 24 years, I have worried that my mother fails to receive all that God has for her. There is still that sense that she needs to do everything to make sure it is done correctly. Be quiet or else the hurts won’t heal. But what hurts have remained open, because she doesn’t discuss them? (For example, Sandy was miscarrying when the doctor made the suggestion that they should take the baby out at that moment...Sandy had not died yet. Essentially, it was an abortion. But Mom never speaks, nor has she ever spoken, of Sandy.)
Now, what am I to take away from this? One, I cannot look at my mother with eyes full of disdain. She is trying to protect her heart; but I know that only God can heal her. Compassion urges a desire that she would open up. Secondly, I must see our similarities, bring them to God, identify which things are healthy and unhealthy. When I have done that, I can grow as a person. Knowing our family history isn’t meant to be full of shame, though painful and shameful things have happened. When we pair reflection with responsibility, the result is restoration for our future.
