Adulthood Damage From Having a Smother Mother
I stand here at age 30, healthy, sane and without shady life activities. I can cook healthy meals, get dressed, go to school, etc. Other parents wouldn't see me as being frail, unhealthy, at risk or worthy of being wrapped in wool. Feelings of dread are experienced when my cell phone says, "last call from...." and my mother's name pops up. The past will come back... I think, as my heart sinks. My mom may be visiting me. Why is this such a big deal?
I have lots of kudos for parents who care, because there are parents who don't care for their kids. When the care is too much smothering,prologned over years, and unreasonable for an adult child, it becomes debilitating. The messaged accrue over time, and somewhere within me, I just may hear her say, "are you sure you can do this?" as I close myself off from all sorts of challenges out of fear. I could have gone to dental school. "Are you sure you can handle the tough course load? I don't think you can". Things become dangerous, activities become dangerous, exclusions from peers, when life can be enjoyed and challenges embraced. Psychotherapy itself doesn't fight mom's anxiety em
Mail from mom is filled with article clippings of crime in the area. I mentioned casually that I will be taking a trip, and instantly she mails me stuff: mosquito repelent, guide books, phrase guides, health recommendations. Things I've already done and thought about using my adult brain, as most healthy adults should. "Bikes are dangerous. don't ride your bike". "I'll pay for...." "You need some eye cream. You're getting fine lines around your eyes". A deep sigh, as if it's a life long illness. It's the high blood pressure when I've been sick as normal healthy adults get once in a while with the stomach bug. It's her squirming posture when she sees me hold a kitchen knife to julienne carrots. It's her hand in public, primping me- my hair, the stain on a shirt, or placing it on my leg that taps sometimes. Her telling me how to talk to contractors and movers when I can come up with my own scripts. I get angry and brush her off, she reminds me of how I'm tied to her for life, and how dependent she is on me, and the strings pull tighter with the next purchase such as a cup of coffee. "Thanks for the coffee, mom". "Remember not to forsake me". The voice mail messages that go on about how something is unsafe and I should avoid it. I'm smothered, and at times as evil as it may seem, I envision a life free from my mom. I feel peaceful at that thought of her being gone.
If society can learn something from my story, it's that "smothering does no good". It created an adult in the image of my own mother who had a harder time coping with general life's minor scrapes and cuts . I became anxious of things and activities people around here do without my thoughts such as riding a bike, hiking in wild dense terrain, swimming in a lake, tackling textbooks of difficult coursework, holding a job and keeping my home organized. The sensitivity cast me as a recluse, an introvert less likely to trust others , un resilient piece of plastic, fear of close female friends for fear that they will be as needy. Mom's anxiety ridden smother comments rest in my head: "I will help" she says my whole life and my thoughts subconsciously does a bad translation, "I need help because I can't do this, I heard it all my life".
My origins in life as a humble zygote began with a lonely, depressed, naive mother who needed someone apart from a loser husband. "I had you because I needed a life purpose.I wanted your dad to change". Dad didn't change- moral number two: have children for very good logical reasons. Single mother hood when the strings were tightened around me during my development when peers played tumble at playgrounds, slid down waterslides, swam laps. I was hearing mom's messages and held so tight in cotton I couldn't move in life. I had minimal friends, no social life and just being mom's "toy" to console her- the "mini-me" to dress and primp.
What is the future for the bleak story I just poured out to you? It may be a learning experience for others who grew up similarly and struggle as a result. I've come up with a provisional solution to all this nonsense. Mom will not change, and assertive dialogues would damage her fragile ego to get her ranting again and I'll have to listen to her gunny sack me with past hurts over the last 30 years. (bad plan) plan two: distance myself from her, spend no more than a week together over holidays. Be very careful with all information I disclose by keeping 95 percent of it to myself, and revealing only what is necessary to sustain a moderate relationship. White lies have been a necessity to get the distance and privacy I need in order to stay sane. Plan 3 is my life long project to be entirely different from her in every way. I will not be a mother and I WILL NOT BE MY MOTHER!