She got out of the car eventually. Being much frailer since her last episode, she couldn’t really decline my offer to take her arm. So I took her elbow in my left hand, noticing how much thinner she has got, feeling the loose skin on her forearm and the birdlike bones underneath. I walked her down to the sea thinking how it wasn’t so bad. I could do something like this now and again. We took off our clothes and got into the water, which was freezing with only a pale heat from the sun. I saw how her togs hung off her, and wondered how long it had been since she had worn them.
It was my other sister Deborah who said it to me, the last time she was over. ‘The things we don’t get from our family, or our parents, the things we feel we should have been given, we need to go out and find them somewhere else.’
There’s a woman I’m seeing now, a counsellor I suppose, but she’s become more than that. She’s in her sixties, around twenty years older than me. She could be my mother, really. Money changes hands after our encounters, though. It is a professional service. And yet our interactions give me a sense of what I might have had if things had been different with my mother. I talk to her about my relationship, about my daughter or about challenges at work. This woman is full of good advice. My mother has never offered me advice about anything. She isn’t able. This woman, Margaret, is maternal. I recognise it from films and books and from friends I have who are close to their mothers. I know that money alters a relationship – I am not reading more into the acquaintanceship than I should. But she is going away for five months and she said I can email her if I need to. I think I will. Deborah is right. You have to go out and find what you need somewhere else, if you never had it before.
Part of my Motherwork was to concentrate on the good times with my mother. Moments when we felt close. I don’t have any, though. I’ve been trying but I don’t. This makes me feel ungrateful. If she only gave birth to me, isn’t that something amazing? Isn’t that the ultimate thing anyone can do for you? I’m trying to remember. Once I mitched from school with a boy in primary class and we were found out. I remember the next day, when people were pointing at me and the teachers were giving out, I remember her saying, ‘Don’t worry about them and what they think.’ She said I was to hold my head up high. I also know she would have done anything to bring us anywhere if we were invited to a party or got an opportunity to do something. She paid my rent for a few months when I had no money. She did what she could. I’m glad I remembered those things. They are important acts of kindness and I had pushed them out of my mind.
Since joining the Daughterhood I started to dig out old photos; it was a way to look for clues. Moments with my mother that I might have missed. One photo came as a total surprise. We are in Co. Mayo, in the west of Ireland, and I am holding her hand. She looks gorgeous in a denim mini dress. She always had cool clothes and was stylish in her own way. In the photo she is holding my hand. I must be about six. She is holding my hand and the sight of her hand in mine made me cry. I thought, ‘My God, we must have had moments when I went to her for comfort. There must have been times when she tried her best to love me.’
I’ve put the photo in a frame. It’s on the mantelpiece in my sitting room beside a photo of me and my daughter. These are the memories that I am going to try to keep at the front of my mind. I want to see about creating some new memories. I want to put in more time with her and support her, if I can, in her old age.
My mother swam out farther than I would have liked. For someone so frail, so jaded and so tormented, she has these strong, expert strokes, and her little white hat bobbed away from me. I stayed close to the shore treading water and did a bit of doggy paddle. I didn’t want to join her. She seemed to be in her own world. When she came back I can’t say she was smiling but she looked, what is the word, serene.
‘The salt water wakes you up. Will we go back, now, Soph?’ she said softly, rubbing herself with the towel. It gave me a jolt. She rarely used my name. She never said Soph. Only my close friends call me that. When we walked slowly back up to the car, she turned around to face me. ‘I want to thank you,’ she said. I stood there all casual, trying to act like she thanked me for things all the time. She rubbed her cheek with the towel. ‘Thank you for being so very kind to me when I was sick. It was very good of you.’
And that really is As Good As It Gets. I don’t think we’re ever going to have any life-shattering, filmic moment when we declare that we really feel close or love each other. She is not that kind of mother. But who knows? Since I’ve been detaching with love I’ve noticed a protectiveness for her kicking in, a realisation that, my God, I really do care about her. I am compassionate. I want her to be happy, even if she never really can be. For so long I felt like a bad daughter because we never had a mother–daughter relationship. I don’t feel like a bad daughter any more. I want peace for both of us now.
I look to the future. To more gentle, simpler times, when we can just be together like we did that day down in the cove. And perhaps we can make peace with each other in that way. I am making more of these moments happen since I joined The Daughterhood. And I am increasingly grateful for them.
The Daughter of Madness writes to her mother:
Dear Mam
This is a difficult letter to write as I still struggle with how I feel or what our relationship means. I suppose the sad thing is, for a lot of reasons, we never had a mother–daughter relationship. We never shared very close moments and, to be honest, early on I realised that it was pointless to look for comfort or advice from you, as I was nearly always left disappointed.
You are a good, kind and caring person but the role of mother was never within reach – perhaps because of all the madness that surrounded you at home within your marriage and your bipolar condition. It’s really only since I’ve had my own daughter that I realise what was lacking for me growing up, so it makes the loss all the more intense. But, at the same time, I also feel for you and what you were going through.
I still feel the loss and hurt and, in a sense, I grieve for what we never had.
At this stage of my life, after a certain amount of counselling and work that I’ve done on myself, the only way to cope is to ‘detach with love’ and try and ditch the anger and the sadness. I think you did your best at any given time but that was not enough and children need more security and emotional care.
Now that you are getting close to eighty and are sick, I want to help you and be there for you and I hope that you can accept this from me without being suspicious. I hope that you can finally accept that I do care about you and that I would love you to have some peace and happiness before you die.
Love,
Sophie
THE DAUGHTER OF NARCISSISM’S MOTHERWORK
Lily was rejected by the woman who adopted her, a woman she believes is a narcissist with no capacity for or understanding of motherhood. She was searching for acceptance and forgiveness. Here’s how Lily got on . . .
I told them at the beginning there would be no happy ending with me. I felt I needed to manage expectations. And the ending is not happy but something has shifted in me just by telling my story to these daughters. I feel validated, I think, is what my counsellor would say. For so long I blamed myself for being rejected by my mother. All the time I was thinking, ‘What’s wrong with me?’ and ‘Why am I such a bad daughter?’
This will be short. It is hard to do Motherwork when you don’t know where your mother is. I’ve narrowed it down recently to Co. Limerick. My mother’s friend, the neighbour who has taken it upon himself to manage her affairs, let it slip to my aunt. So now at least I can picture her in sheltered housing in Co. Limerick somewhere. One of these days I will make a list of all the sheltered houses and narrow it down even further. Or maybe I won’t.
She has taken calls from me on her mobile a few times. At an appointed time. I know well enough now to plan what I will say in my conversations. I keep it light. No matter what response I get, I stick to my script. It has worked well so far.
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I don’t actually think about her very often, which is another welcome development. I know she is receiving good care. I know she is safe. I go about my life as though she doesn’t exist.
My Motherwork is work I have to do on myself to undo the damage she has done over the years. My Motherwork is to become more confident and change my way of thinking about myself. I want to be happier, more sure of myself. My mother and I were intertwined in my mind for so long, it took time to separate myself from her. My Motherwork is making that separation permanent. The counselling helps.
In the meantime, I’ve been trying to get back in touch with my birth mother. The only contact we had is around the time I got married when I first discovered I was adopted. I let it drop then. My life got busy and I was so happy with Rob and all our plans, I didn’t make time for this new mother relationship in my life. When I contacted the agency they told me that she didn’t want to rekindle the contact at this time. She ‘has too much on in her personal life’, they said. They didn’t think she could deal with hearing from me again.
I understand. I appeared and then disappeared from her life just as quickly. If I were her, I’d probably be wary, too. I’ve asked the adoption agency whether she would be open to receiving a letter from me without any need for a response. I’d like to explain how my life has turned out. I don’t want to make her feel guilty for putting me up for adoption, but I do want to tell her why I left it so long to get in contact. I hope she might be open to an explanation. But if she isn’t, I will understand.
Natasha and Róisín asked me how I would feel if my mother died tomorrow. The word that comes to mind is relieved. I don’t mean that in a bitter way. I’m not saying I’d dance on her grave. There would just be a sense of relief that this sadness, this painful part of my life that has hung over me and, in the last few years hung over Rob, for so long would be over. On a selfish level I’d feel my life was now my own. That I was no longer defined by her actions and words. The words said to me and whispered about me. The lies.
I know I will cry when she dies. There will be tears over the loss of so much life and love. But I’ve been mourning her loss as my mother for a long time. I spent a long time wondering how a woman could choose one baby from a room full of babies, the way she chose me all those years ago, and then reject that baby when she needed her most. As a child. As a teenager. As a young woman making my way in the world. I have compassion for my birth mother. I know the circumstances she must have faced were appalling when she had to give me up. But the rejection by my adopted mother, a woman who must at one point have desperately wanted a child, has caused me unspeakable pain.
When the time comes for her passing, I don’t think it will be that hard to deal with it. For a long time I thought it was my fault. I don’t believe that any more. I have compassion for her now. She is not well. The words were rattling around my head for ages. I do feel so sorry for her. Sorry for this woman sitting wherever she is sitting, in whatever sheltered house she is in, living beside strangers, all on her own.
Her death, when it comes, will signal the final closing of the door on my former life. I am part of my husband’s family now. I am enveloped in their love and in their traditions. I am accepted by them for who I am. I am so grateful for that.
I’ve been thinking a lot recently about what I’d say to other daughters in my situation. All the other rejected daughters. The daughters of narcissistic mothers.
The first thing I would say is – don’t feel guilty. It sucks the life blood out of you slowly but surely. If you’ve done everything to be a good daughter, then you have been a good daughter. You’ve just been unfortunate not to have the mother you deserve. If your mother cannot love you, if she cannot respect you and your life, your opinions, your choices, then she doesn’t deserve you in her life. It is her loss.
My advice, the thing that has worked for me, is to seek out and nurture relationships where your contribution is valued and you are treated equally and loved unconditionally. By lovers or by friends. You deserve love and you are not unlovable, no matter how your mother made you feel.
Learn to love yourself. When your self-esteem has taken a battering from a mean mother it is hard to feel good about yourself but don’t let that stop you trying. Accept people’s love and kindness, it will help you heal.
Being rejected by your mother is horrible. But she is only one (admittedly one very important) person in your life. Don’t let her define you. Don’t let her ruin all that is good in your life. Write new chapters. Open a new book.
If you can, go and see a counsellor. If nothing else, it’s a release to rant and rave with someone who is trained to listen. Someone who is not family. Someone who will not judge. And if counselling isn’t for you, set up a Daughterhood. Seek out people who will listen without prejudice. It has helped me, it might help you.
The Daughter of Narcissism writes to her mother:
Mother, I’m sorry.
I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you as a daughter. I’m sorry that you can’t trust anyone in your life ever. I’m sorry that life seems to have disappointed you. I’m sorry that you can’t/won’t know the true love of family and friends.
I’m sorry that you miss Dad so much. I’m sorry that we don’t know one another better and I’m sorry we never will get to know one another better. I’m sorry you don’t know what it is to be honest with yourself and others. I’m sorry I didn’t do more or see what was going on with you sooner.
I’m sorry you only know how to lie and manipulate people. I’m sorry you don’t know what unconditional love means. I’m sorry I don’t love you as a daughter should. I’m sorry you’ve never seemed to be truly happy.
I’m sorry you could never just be you and not care what other people thought of you. I’m sorry that you can’t even tell me or your sisters where you are. I’m sorry that you probably have dementia and don’t even realise that the reality you see isn’t real, right, correct.
I’m sorry that you were never the mother I deserved and I’m sorry we’ve ended up like this.
Your daughter,
Lily
THE BECOMING-MY-MOTHER DAUGHTER’S MOTHERWORK
Cathy wrote to us out of a fear that she was becoming her mother. She also wanted to be more patient with her mum and stop telling her what to do. Here’s how Cathy got on . . .
If I were to tell you in one word how things have changed or improved since I began consciously focusing on my relationship with my mother I would use the word: communication. As a family, we never stop talking. But since joining The Daughterhood I have done a lot of thinking about the way I communicate with my mother. How I speak. The quality of my listening. The subtleties of our exchanges.
The phone is a case in point. In our house growing up, you never stayed on the phone too long. You might be blocking an important call, after all. Somebody might, at the exact moment when you are waffling on about your Spanish homework, be wanting to get through to report some Big News. A house burning down in the next village, say. The latest political scandal. In my house you answered the phone and got off it again as soon as you could.
Without really realising, I carried this on with my mother when I left home. Our phone conversations were hurried. Full of basic facts and rushed arrangements. But as part of my Motherwork I had committed to listening to my mother more. The results have surprised me.
One thing I discovered during these long conversations on the phone is that my mother’s hearing is getting worse. Sometimes I felt I was shouting at her rather than speaking to her. We chatted about everything. She was feeling old. She didn’t know what to do about her friend Mary who was worried her children were thinking of putting her into a home. My first instinct when I gave my mother the space to talk at length about these issues was to offer advice. To fall back into old family habits and meddle. But I held back. I was learning that my mother wasn’t telling me all these things so that I could fix them. I realised she just wanted to say these things out loud
. Just to be heard.
I started calling her on Fridays, putting an hour aside to listen to whatever she wanted to say. Before the call I’d remind myself of the purpose of the chat. I was to listen. I was not, unless specifically asked, to offer some kind of advice. After a few Fridays I hardly needed to remind myself at all. It began to feel natural. She talked. I listened. I could sense an unburdening I’d never allowed to happen before.
These conversations allowed me to get to know my mother better. Something I hadn’t realised was so important to me. When we are close to people we can often think we have them sussed. We put them in a box marked x or y and we become attached to that version of them. We are reluctant to let them evolve. But my mother had evolved. Kathleen was seventy-nine. She was growing ever more uneasy about getting older. Having spent decades rearing children in a house as busy as Grand Central Station, she had to adjust to a lonelier, smaller kind of life since my father had died fifteen years ago. As I listened to my mother on the phone every Friday, I began to find out who she was now. Not my idea of who she was – the reality.
‘I hate it; I hate being old,’ she’d tell me. It was a phrase I had heard from my mother a million times before. And usually when she said this I would try to rationalise with her, talk her out of this negative thinking. Before, my response would have been preachy, hectoring, exasperated even. ‘Sure aren’t you almost eighty, Mam?’ I might have said. ‘Aren’t you relatively healthy with your friends around you and your whist outings twice a week?’ I dismissed her complaints. But that was before I had started really listening. Now I said nothing. I let her talk.
‘I hate being old,’ my mother repeated, in the gap where normally I’d have interjected in a bid to dampen down her flaming negativity. So my mother got to expand on her point instead of being stopped in her tracks. ‘I hate it. People treat you like you’re an eejit. I don’t like the way my bones creak when I move. I hate the fact that I’m invisible to some people in the supermarket. Getting old is horrible. There’s nothing good or nice about it and don’t let anybody tell you any different.’
The Daughterhood Page 17