Archive for the ‘mother’ Category

Mother-Guilt Archetype & Family Obligations


Most of us are familiar with the Mother Archetypes in our society–one of which is the passive-aggressive mother who tries to make you feel guilty for living your own life because it doesn’t coincide with what she wants or needs. As exemplified by messages like “I had to go to the doctor yesterday…in case you care…”

A friend of mine is dealing with this sort of mother, who has a long track record of showing little or no concern for her daughter’s happiness, nor at all appreciative of her daughter’s wonderful qualities. Her only contribution to the mother-daughter relationship is criticizing, dismissing, minimizing her daughter’s feelings, wishes or challenges. 

Recently my friend was victimized by her mother’s guilt trips about not “coming home” enough (out of state), and that it was somehow a mistake to move so far away from family. The point that seems to be missed by overbearing, passive aggressive, self-absorbed mothers like this, is that if your daughter feels like she has to move to ANOTHER STATE to get away from you and be happy, there’s an issue that isn’t about your daughter’s poor choices.

This friend of mine is currently worried about her grandmother’s health, and that she might not be around much longer. And she’s anticipating the issue of her grandmother dying, and then knowing she simply cannot afford the trip back to her family’s state. She had just made one recently to deal with other dramas in the family and can’t do it again anytime soon. She’d probably have to take a week off from work again, like she did when her grandfather died, and she can’t ask for more time off for awhile without endangering her job and her financial status. She was already making up the time she missed to go home recently, by working late almost every day. So she anticipates the guilt-trips and emotional blackmail that will certainly follow, should her grandmother pass away anytime soon.

I could see that the situation could use some reframing.

So I told my friend that we now live in a different world than the generation of her mother. People are moving around more and the economy is in the toilet and everyone is struggling. The point is, you can only do what you can do, and the guilt trips from her mother are about her mother’s issues, not anything my friend is doing wrong.

I said that people nowadays miss things like funerals and weddings and hospital visits, because life is hard, finances are strained, and we’re all generally scattered and not living near our parents and other relatives.

And the deeper issue here is that whether or not you believe in souls, it’s about that person who died, and your relationship with them–not your relationship with everyone else. If they do have a soul and there is some higher existence after the death of the body, then they would not have petty human emotions anyway, would know you love them and wanted to be with them to say goodbye or honor them at a memorial or funeral if you could. And they would feel your love for them no matter where you were geographically. So the guilt-trip aspect puts limits on the limitless nature of something like that.

Contrarily, if you don’t believe in the soul and any form of life after death, then it’s that the person has died and is completely unaware of anything anyone does and so it’s a moot point.

So the feelings of the other people about what you are and are not doing to honor a loved one who has died, is THEIR ISSUE and has little to do with who you are, or what you’re responsible for. All in all her mother’s arguments against my friend’s decisions and her choice of where she calls home is about what her mother wants and needs and has nothing to do with what her daughter wants and needs, so ultimately, it’s all about being selfish and not about being loving or supportive. Thus, it’s her mother’s issue and my friend doesn’t have to get sucked into that void.

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Father, no–Brother

I had been asleep only four hours when I woke up crying. A dream. I was at some kind of family gathering, a reunion, perhaps. I was stocking some refreshments, but I was being paid to work at this place.  (I haven’t done that kind of work in 20 years). From my peripheral vision, i saw a man walk in, and something compelled me to take a good look at him. It was my father.  My dead father. No, it was my brother, who looked just like him, now. I hadn’t seen my brother in something like 13 years. He had changed. He now looked like my father. I turned away swiftly, not wanting him to see me. Not wanting the emotional confrontation that would be inevitable. What was he doing here?  Tears began to stream down my face, and I continued to hide from my brother, hoping he wouldn’t recognize me. Even though i wanted to pretend he was my father, and I would have the chance to say goodbye.

My family took that away from me when he died last January, and i found out 13 days after the fact, from (of all places) friends of friends on Facebook. To add insult to injury, they left me out of the obit too. I wrote about this in Surviving Family Member.  

Whatever it was that made my family hate me, is still a mystery. I spent half my adult life trying to win their approval and love, until I finally had to just give that up and get on with my life. Perhaps that’s why I spent the last ten years trying to become the most quality person I could be. I needed to know for sure that there was no reason for them to have made me the pariah, the outcast, the black sheep. No reason other than their own selfishness and ignorance. And I’m sure it’s why the thought of growing old without enough friends and a partner is so sad and frightening to me. If I don’t have many friends and a partner who loves me sincerely, and chooses to be with me, it becomes pejorative commentary on my value as a human being.


So again, I take a deep breath, tell myself I matter, wipe the tears away, and make coffee.

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Passerby


(Published in the Arkansas Women’s Journal)

I had begun the trek to my Expository Writing class that January afternoon, taking the high walkway in front of the campus bookstore, when my eyes flickered to the woman coming toward me. She was a frosted blond, middle aged, dressed professionally, and carried a soft side attach. She held an ugly green umbrella over her head to stave off the light drizzle; the edge of the umbrella tilted just enough so that I couldn’t see her face clearly.

These details swept into my brain along with a numbing suggestion that she was not a stranger, but someone I have known all my life. I looked away so quickly, caught up in my practiced apathy, that I was unable to get another look at her face, for fear she would notice me and that eye contact would result in a dreaded confrontation. My brain whirled away in a fantasy that she would see me and rush over to me, pulling at my sleeve, and tell me how very proud she was of my success at school, and of my courage in going back for a degree, and how sorry she was for the awful letter she had written when she excused herself from my life. And the fantasy evaporated abruptly when she passed by, and my heart thumped back into operation, and the veins in my neck seemed to swell, forcing the blood into my head.

I tried to catch my breath before I turned around to examine her as she moved away from me without pause across the red brick square below. Like a traumatized child, I stood there in the mist, trying to focus on her form before it moved too far away. It had to be her. But the green umbrella– she would not carry a green umbrella. And the walk she never hobbled like that unless something happened. Unless she’s had an accident of some sort since–I continued to watch her move under the canopy at the entrance of the student union, and beyond toward the parking lot, analyzing the reasons why it could not be her. She might have looked at me, but it was not for very long. I know, even though I was busy looking away. Maybe she didn’t recognize me after two years. Have I changed that much? Maybe she didn’t look at me at all, and that’s why she kept walking. That’s why she didn’t react.

I stood there in my long, dark raincoat, the mist caressing my face, and wondered why it mattered at all. I wondered why I would risk being late for class for someone like her, who could not give me the time of day, nor acknowledge me as a valuable human being. How can a mother ignore her only daughter?

I checked my watch, and turned toward my destination again, refusing to take that additional glance my heart ached for. She’s no longer part of my life.

If it was her.

Which I’m sure it wasn’t.

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