Recently, I had a bit of a breakdown of sorts. I didn’t require hospitalization, and I wasn’t in any immediate danger, but I did learn some things about myself while it was happening. It all started because my husband encouraged me to do something fun for myself. The nerve. Our toddler had been sick for a few days, and I had been planted on the couch, cuddling and watching Peppa Pig. In the course of our conversation, I realized that I didn’t really know what I would want to do with my free time and I had no idea with whom I would want to do it. I had been a working mother for the last two years, and I had completely disappeared into my identity. I hadn’t seen some of my friends in MONTHS. Crap.
I have to admit I was slightly aware of this. When someone asks you what’s new and you really have nothing to say on the matter, it speaks volumes. I had been comfortably ignoring it for a while, so I did not take this sudden acknowledgement well. Like any sane person in the 21st century, I immediately posted to a Facebook moms page about my trauma. (This shows me that I had some to think of this group as a support system of sorts. Which is fine, but still. It’s Facebook.) I set my oldest friend into a panic, since she’s a member of this group, and then I texted my geographically closest friend who happens to be a survivor of WAY more drama than I could ever hope to experience. Both were amazing and both gave me a bit of what I needed that day to get through to the next moment in time.
Over the next few days, as I started to feel a bit more confident, and less like a dishrag, I started to look around for answers. The easy thing to do would be to blame this on some of sort of long running postpartum depression, and at first, I was inclined to do that. It didn’t feel like quite the right fit though. I had actually been doing pretty well for a long period of time in the last two years. I had gotten out and done some performances in that time. I had gone out with friends. Sure, it wasn’t perfect! There were also lots of time that I begged off because I just couldn’t get myself out the door, but I’m also introverted, so that’s not really that strange. So what had happened in the recent past to set this off? There had been a lot more contact with my mother. *sigh. Oh goody! Here we are again.
It seems like such a tired trope to blame your problems on your mother. Too easy. And after all, I don’t even live in the same zip code as my mother. The only real clue that I had was our recent Easter… well, we can call a ‘celebration’, but honestly, it was really just an awkward gathering of people whose only common thread was blood relationship. I had not enjoyed this experience AT ALL. In fact, I had pretty much actively hated the whole damn thing. I was only doing this to please my mother. There. I said it. I didn’t really care about Easter at all. I didn’t care if my daughter had an Easter dresss, if we had an egg hunt, and I had no interest in attending church. The only reason we were doing any of this was because it would please my mother. Yikes. I didn’t know that I was such a compliant people pleaser. I like to think of myself as this bad ass who doesn’t really give a shit what any of you think of me, and while to a certain degree some of that is true, it’s not as much as I would like to think.
So, like any overthinking, over analytical, over intellectual person, I immediately took advantage of being behind a university paywall, and started reading psych journals. If you put any stock at all in self diagnosis, here is the crux of the matter. I am enmeshed in my relationship with my mother. I’m not quite ready to regurgitate all of my findings here. Also, I’m not actually a mental health professional, so I’m not going to pretend that I am. (By the way, I have reached out to a mental health care provider. They experience a high volume of calls. I hope to hear back soon.) However, there’s value in distilling it to a short, laymen’s terms description- my mother is a narcissist and as a result of being raised by a narcissist, I became someone with too little of my own identity and interests. I became a compliant people pleaser who is deeply motivated by the guilt she loves to heap upon me. Wow. The shoe fits.
My husband and I have have been married for 4 years. During these years, he has often questioned why I need to do particular things for my mother. She’s an adult. Do I really need to call her back right now? Why do we have to stop at their house before heading to Thanksgiving at your aunt’s house?- getting off the highway makes no sense. Surely, she can book her own hotel room!? Ah, but you see, I am her best friend and her caretaker. I help her navigate this cruel world and if I didn’t do it for her… well, … huh. Well, it’s not like she’d die, right? Some lovely customer service individual who is being paid to deal with her nonsense and the nonsense of thousands of other people would help her, right?
There are so many many examples of ways I have gone above and beyond to subsume my own needs and desires in order to keep my mother happy. The one that comes most readily to my mind occurred during the labor and delivery of my first child. Outsiders would see my mother as a concerned parent who wants to be present to be of assistance to her laboring daughter. It’s a good act, but I’m not convinced at this point. My mother simply wants to be near the action so that she can be recognized as the grandmother. She can regale the labor and delivery nurses with tales of her experiences during her BRIEF stint as an L&D nurse. She can show me all of the baby clothes she insists on showing me even though I am incredibly stressed because I just gave birth and my newborn is in the NICU with acidosis! She needs the spotlight!!!
After the horror stories my sister-in-law had shared about her labor and delivery experience with my mother present, I insisted she was not going to be present in the delivery room. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have even let her know my due date. In the end my OBGYN scheduled me for an induction, and I shared that information with my parents. After all, it only seemed far since my in-laws were going to come as well.
So, I’m in the hospital, in the very early stages of labor. As they are on the road, my parents still haven’t worked out where they are going to stay. I think they assumed I would let them stay at my house since Ben and I weren’t there. Since I was not going to let my mom run wild over my house in my absence, and since at the time my parents were without smartphones, I used my smartphone from the labor and delivery suite to attempt to book them a hotel via hotels.com. Let’s step back and appreciate the CRAZY of this for a moment. Here, I am. I’m in labor with my first child. This should really be all about me at this moment. Everyone should be taking care of me. (In all fairness to my husband, he was wondering why the hell I was doing this.) To make this even better, there’s a problem with the website, so I end up getting on the phone with the local Holiday Inn to make the reservation for them! WTFF?!?! I told the woman on the phone – a lovely lady – that I was in labor and making the reservation for my parents. She probably thought I was nuts.
In the last week, I have finally processed all the questions my husband has been asking over the last four years. Why do I do this to myself? I am not required to be my mother’s emotional support. I do not need to book hotels for her or answer the phone every time she calls me, whenever she calls me. I do not have to let her guilt me into doing things for her, visiting her, allowing her to visit whenever she wants, etc. I am allowed to have interests and needs of my own. In so many ways, I feel so free all of sudden. I’m a little drunk on power here. I want to register for a class on something that interests me. I want to join a club, any club. Heck! I feel so free that I am ranting about her in a blog post! Normally, I keep this stuff to myself because god forbid, I wouldn’t want to say that anything that would embarrass dear mama.
So, after years and years of farting around with this blog and wanting to write something, but not having any idea what I wanted to write, because I’ll never be as good as Margaret Atwood, blah blah blah, I think I have found a direction for this blog. I am going to use it to work through my recovery from my narcissist mother. I am going to discover exactly who I am, without reference to my mother, and I am going to tell the truth, even if it is ugly. ESPECIALLY when it is ugly!