Why I’ll Never Talk to my Mother Again
And this is the first and last time I explain it

(Trigger warning for discussion of childhood emotional/psychological abuse and covert sexual abuse)
I could feel excitement in my stomach as I begin typing. That’s what happens anytime I’m about to take a leap into something that I know will be challenging or worth the risk. Over these past five years I’ve learned to trust my intuition, to know the difference between what deserves my attention, and what doesn’t, but I wasn’t always like that.
I was that shy awkward kid at the back of the class who would shrink anytime the teacher wanted us to answer a question. When it came to presentations I would stutter nervously and often procrastinated on class projects till the night before. My mom would sigh angrily and stay up to help me with it. It seemed like she always had my back and that I could count on her for anything. My teachers would praise how smart I was, but each time added how I never talked or expressed myself more. On the inside I wanted to explode, and let out so badly my inner Gloria Steinem. I can feel her even right now.

As a kid I was pretty much seen and not heard and the people in my personal life seemed generally okay with that. At least except for my grandmother. For a period of my childhood my mom was working long hours so I used to stay with her. Being with my grandmother were the only times I felt I could really be myself- she’s like a real mom to me. With my biological mom on the other hand, I didn’t know who I was. She used to often give me clothes that no longer fit her, and at Christmas when I was twelve she bought me a motorcycle jacket just like she had. By the time I was a teen it was obvious people found me attractive and enjoyed taking pictures of me. It just so happens my mom wanted to be a model but for whatever reason my grandfather didn’t let her, so for a few years she tried pushing me into modelling. It took till after high school to realize I was trying to live her dream, not mine. Mine was always to be a writer and director.
Anytime I felt confident or had some sort of accolade, my mom would manage to make it about herself. On my tenth birthday she encouraged my family to sing the “Birthday Song” when I made it clear I hated that song. I started crying and went to hide. For my college graduation she orchestrated an argument with my grandmother by arriving late when the two of them were supposed to meet at the subway. Once my ceremony was finished, instead of being proud of me, all they could talk about was who got to the wrong place. When I started directing short films in my early twenties my mom sarcastically asked me if I was trying to be the “next Scorsese”. This coming from the same woman who claimed to be my number one fan and who started crying because I didn’t let her read my scripts.
All that is hardly the tip of the iceberg. Much of the abuse I suffered growing up was insidious to the point it tore our family apart. As a kid I went through a phase where while bathing I didn’t want my mom to wash my genitalia. I definitely don’t remember being abused by anyone, just that it made me uncomfortable, but one night my mom was quick to accuse otherwise. She started throwing at me names of different people, and to get her to calm down, I said my uncle abused me (which he didn’t). She then asked me questions about what supposedly happened, but in a way where it felt like she was fabricating the story with me. When my mom told my relatives, we didn’t see my uncle for almost six months, and I was heartbroken because I knew it didn’t happen but felt like it was more important to make my mom happy then to tell the truth. Eventually the truth came out and most of our relatives didn’t speak to her ever again. Every now and then my mom would guilt me at how I apparently destroyed the family. Thanks, mom.
Despite the fact that my uncle and I remained close afterwards, a part of me still wishes I could apologize to him. He would take me places to learn photography and always supported my dreams of a film career. (I’m so sorry, Uncle Joe.)
My mom also seemed to have an unhealthy obsession with my sexuality and blossoming womanhood. She never touched me, but occasionally she would call me “sexy” and make inappropriate comments on my appearance. She also didn’t seem to realize our age difference. According to her, I was her “best friend” and we were “joint after the hip”. So she could and would tell me anything about everything. She would talk to me about her ex-boyfriends, about how emotionally abusive my grandfather was, things a child shouldn’t hear, and we would also watch movies and tv shows that were beyond age appropriate, too.
*The following paragraph involves mention of graphic images with a minor watching.*
When I was ten we got our first computer. Often in my mom’s inbox she would get emails with porn images, some involving sex acts between people, and others where women would be performing on animals. Did I have to snoop through my mom’s email to see this? Not at all, I would often be in the same room as her. Sometimes I’d look and get disgusted. She used to laugh. On weekends there was a channel on television that used to show softcore porn movies late at night, and her and I would sit down and watch them together. For years I just assumed my mom was simply more open about sexuality than most parents. I didn’t think it was weird.
As a teen I wasn’t allowed to be attracted to boys either. Whenever she found out I was trying to flirt she would slut-shame me. One time I left a chat open on the computer with a guy I was talking to, and she read it. “You sound like a slut.” Yep, and all I wrote to him was: “Don’t miss me too much” when we ended the convo.
I was about twenty-one when I was sitting at my laptop learning about the term “narcissistic mother”, when I thought to myself how I would never watch porn with my own kids. The moment that sunk in- that this was child abuse, I ran to the washroom to throw up. My mom asked me what was wrong, and I just lied, saying it was probably nausea from dinner. That’s when I knew I couldn’t be around her anymore.
By the time I realized having this woman in my life held me back, I felt liberated. Like after all these years of being told there was something wrong with me, it was her that was wrong with me. It turned out a lot of people did like me for who I really was, and that I was the one brainwashed into thinking I’d never be more than her precious daughter. The only problem was by now my mom started dealing with serious mental health episodes, which made it so she would dissociate during arguments. Around 2013, the same year I had my “awakening” to the abuse, she started hearing voices and would make up things I was supposedly doing. She became even more obsessed with my whereabouts and during that time I got increasingly rebellious. I would spend long evenings at the library or hang out with friends- anything to only come home after a certain hour so I could avoid confronting her.
One night, however, shit hit the fan beautifully, like something out of a movie. That summer I had to put up with my mom constantly screaming at me and calling me names, while simultaneously hearing her talk to herself all the time. I came home that night after hanging out with friends. It was about one in the morning. As a climbed up the stairs the song “Fast Car” by Tracy Chapman played on the radio like it described the story of my life. My mom was going off on me about finances after asking to see my bank account- my loans and bursaries were often used to help her with money. I stomped to my room, put my dog on his leash and walked out. As I turned to my neighbor who was on the front porch recording us, I told him he could call police, and he did.
Meanwhile I walked outside with my dog, feeling terrified and wondering what would happen if I left. I already went to my grandmother’s once the month before for a few days. So I called her on a pay phone. She told me I could go stay with her tomorrow, but this felt like a matter of fighting for my life and future. I knew I couldn’t have either as long as I lived that way, so I waited for the cops to meet me at the station. They drove us to my grandmother’s at four am and the next day, my mom got arrested for making death threats to the neighbors. She got evicted and had to stay at my grandmother’s till she found a new apartment. I made a game plan and with help from a friend, my dog and I moved in with roommates across the other side of the city on October 31st 2014.
Right after moving out I gained a new-found confidence, started wearing more makeup, buying lingerie, and listened to different kinds of music. I discovered and have still been discovering, sides of myself that surprise me. The people who know me now don’t seem so surprised, and I guess that must be a good thing.
I saw my mom one more time a few weeks later at my uncles’ house. I was shocked to see how much she aged in such little time. She had more grey hair and lost weight. She used to be so beautiful, so perfect to me. It made sense that she wanted to model. Now all I could see was the person who almost destroyed me.
Occasionally she’ll create a fake Facebook profile to send messages, and one time even contacted my ex-husband. I ignore it each time. Recently I spoke to my grandmother (who I talk to regularly), and she said my mom wanted to pass on the message that I could call if I ever I wanted to talk. That’s funny, because when I look back on the first twenty-two years of my life, all my good memories don’t involve her. Why would new ones be any different? I’m not angry or bitter or anything, I’ve just moved on, but it still hurts sometimes. People can change, sure. People reconcile all the time. It’s possible for some. Except that this life I’ve built for myself, with the success I have today, that’s all me. I built that. I made this. I moved city on my own. I published a book on my own. I got divorced on my own. Eventually I’ll have a family of my own. People always talk about giving their kids the things they “never had”, but I’m determined to take it a step further, and make sure they never go through what I did, and that includes a childhood free of abusers. Mark my words. I want them to become warriors. I want them to love themselves and know how powerful they are, because a good mom does that.
So to reconciliation I say a strong affirmative “NO”. I’m already just learning to reconcile with my inner child.
Get my book “Persephone Rises” on Amazon or by visiting my website persephonerises.org
