True Life: I Hate My Mother

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My mother is vindictive, controlling and outright mean. If I could list the ways she passive aggressively told me I was fat, told me my boyfriend was too stupid, too nerdy, too poor, to high maintenance, whatever—if I could count the times she’s implied I was stupid, that my only success would come with marrying a wealthy man or that what I was doing was just not good enough—I’d have a very long list.

It’s not that I don’t love my mother, it’s that I want to scratch her eyes out. No, what I really want is a mommy not a mother. I want someone to guide me, to nurture me, to love me unconditionally, for just once. The reality is that my mother’s love is so conditional, it’s unattainable. I’ve given up. I’ve accepted that it’s never going to happen. She’s never going to be my mommy, or encouraging, or nurturing or loving—it’s not her nature. It’s now who she is. 

You can only blame your problems on your childhood for so long. Eventually, my mom’s problems will become my problems and I am not interested in having that happen. Instead of waiting, hoping or trying to have an ounce of a relationship with her, I’m just letting it go.

Every decision she’s made to be conniving or rude is her choice. It’s not on me. It doesn’t mean I don’t deserve to be loved, it means she has difficulty being loving. I’m done blaming myself for something that is completely out of my control. Although it hurts, I know it’s for the better.

If she were any other person in my life, they’d be immediately removed from the equation. But she is my mother, so I tried and tried and tried. I’ve given up on her because she gave up on me from the start. Instead of a support system she’s become a tumor with her negativity and rudeness.

I’ll be my own mother. I’ll nurture myself. I’ll love myself. I’ll support myself. Then I’ll forgive her for my own sanity but I know she’ll never change.

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