When my mother entered hospice care over 18 months ago, I thought I had finished processing our complicated past. I believed I had come to terms with everything that had happened between us. However, my initial optimism proved misplaced, as I’ve recently been confronted with the uncomfortable reality that trauma resurfaces when you least expect it, often bringing pain along with it.
My sister, who is five years my senior, went to prison when I was just 18. Two decades ago, we lacked the language and understanding to recognize the wounds that had formed in our family. After returning from a year of ministry work (which I later realized was just a cult), I found myself back in my mother’s Section 8 apartment with a niece who was only eight months old. It felt jarring, as if I had been thrust into adulthood without any warning. I took a job at a bagel shop only to discover that a significant portion of my earnings went to help support my mother while I crashed on her couch.
Having no prior experience with children, I quickly realized how overwhelming it was to balance a full-time job with the demands of child-rearing. It felt like too much to handle for my mental health. Whether it was my own struggles or the ongoing dysfunction within my family, I began to overlook some glaring warning signs about my mother’s behavior.
You see, she thrived while my sister was incarcerated. My mother enjoyed being a full-time grandmother and often portrayed herself as an endlessly giving mother. Yet, she had tormented both my sister and me throughout our upbringing. Raised in an environment of perpetual fear, our mother, like her own mother, was driven by an insatiable need for attention that often came at our expense.
She never paused to question why I, a bright and obedient child, faced so many challenges in school. Instead, her focus was solely on what she perceived as my rebellion, believing I was possessed by literal demons. The same went for my sister; rather than seeking to understand her struggles with addiction, all my mother expressed was disgust and disappointment.
When my sister had three more children while battling her addiction and enduring domestic abuse, our mother suddenly shifted her attention. For the first time, she ceased pretending to be gravely ill and directed her energy towards her grandchildren. Many of these events I missed because I had left for college and later got married at almost 21. I soon dropped out to avoid revealing my academic struggles, attempting to start fresh hundreds of miles away.
Unfortunately, my new life didn’t go as planned. My marriage was fraught with issues, and adulthood only amplified my insecurities. Although I didn’t resort to drugs like my sister, I turned to food, unhealthy relationships, and a pervasive sense of self-loathing.
Upon returning to Minnesota after my divorce, I discovered my family had unraveled. My sister needed help, as did her children. Oddly, despite her reliance on prayer and church for solutions, my mother chose to involve the police and child protective services instead.
I had no idea what to expect from her decision to report my sister for child abuse, but I feared it would lead to dire consequences. When she expressed her intention to seek help in this manner, I hesitated to disagree—something I had never done before. Growing up, expressing dissent meant facing her wrath, often accompanied by threats of damnation. Despite my fear, I urged her to consider alternative resources like counseling and rehab first.
Our mother dismissed my concerns, insisting that what was happening went beyond drug use and neglect, claiming there was sexual abuse involved too. I’ll likely never know the truth about those allegations, but it was a topic we grew up hearing about daily. According to her, she and her siblings had faced abuse at the hands of their grandfather, and she left our father due to similar claims against him.
Years later, after I became a mother myself, she emailed me, alleging that I was allowing my child to be abused and suggesting she might need to contact CPS again. Despite starting this chain of events, my mother was devastated by the fallout. She felt wronged by the foster mother and believed everyone involved in the investigation was against her.
In the midst of the chaos, my father unexpectedly passed away. My mother took this as divine confirmation of her actions, convinced that custody of the children was just around the corner. However, the reality was starkly different; all four kids were placed with their paternal relatives in Missouri, cutting off my mother’s access to them permanently.
The fallout affected everyone; my sister lost her children, and the kids lost their home and family. Despite the devastation, it seemed my mother’s main concern was her own loss, rather than the broader impact on her family. I also felt the weight of this loss. My father may have been a flawed man, but his death was traumatic. I had been an engaged aunt until the kids were taken away, and my sister and I became estranged for years amidst her legal troubles and addiction.
When my mother withdrew from our relationship, I was 26. She spent her days lamenting the absence of her grandchildren, expressing despair over life without them. I struggled to navigate my own life, facing daily challenges while she demanded I share in her grief. During holidays, she would remind me that there was no point in celebrating without family.
Recently, my sister and I have grappled with feelings of guilt about our mother’s hospice care. Neither of us anticipated how her nearing end might reopen old wounds. Throughout our lives, she has claimed to be dying—stories of various ailments changing as time passed.
While her health has deteriorated, her narratives have shifted from physical ailments to conspiracy theories about government persecution. As her children, we’ve been burdened by her constant litany of grievances about the unfairness of life.
Reflecting on all of this, I find myself at a crossroads. I’m not visiting my mother, but I don’t see myself as a monster. I’m navigating my own healing while coming to terms with the complexities of our past.
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Summary:
This reflective piece recounts the author’s complex relationship with their mother, emphasizing the impact of trauma and the challenges of family dynamics. It explores the consequences of decisions made in the name of care and the emotional weight carried by those involved. The narrative threads together personal experiences and broader themes of healing, guilt, and the search for understanding amidst familial chaos.