Letters to My Dead Toxic Mother (Part 1/3)
A reflection on toxic relationships between mothers and daughters.
Dear MahDear,
On September 27th, It will be one year since you left me. When dad passed away just 11 months before, I knew you would follow soon after. I wasn’t sure how much time you had precisely, so I stopped teaching in the 20–21 school year. With whatever time you had left, I wanted to be there.
I tried to make up for all the lost time; we lost so much time. 12 years to be exact, from 18 to 30 years old, more specifically. You missed so many things in my life, both school, and career milestones. Boyfriends and breakups; a girlfriend at one point too. You missed seeing me through miscarriages and miscarriages of justice; I could have used you by my side. The assured comfort of a mother's love during painful times.
I often fantasize what my life would have been like had you never left me, had you never made me choose, had you not abandoned me during one of life’s most important transitions. Your divorcing dad was about what you needed to be happy, your emancipation, and I supported you. But that wasn’t enough. You wanted me to take sides. You always wanted me to take sides.
I’ll never forget the time we were walking hand and hand around the block of our suburban neighborhood. The sun was shining bright, and the warmth on my neck felt so good. As we came around the corner, just passing the house that still hung their confederate flag, you asked me a question that made me go cold.
A question that interrupted the warmth on my neck and replaced it with chilly hairs that stood at attention. Keenly aware that my answer was critically important. You asked, “Who do you love more? Me or Daddy?” As my chest tightened, in what I didn’t know then, a mix of fear and anxiety, I carefully crafted a response I felt was both true and would appease you.
I’ve never been a good liar. It’s something that never came naturally to me. Besides, I was taught lying is a sin, and I feared God only slightly more than I feared you. It wasn't that my answer was untrue, rather, I knew you wanted to hear an affirmative of my love and loyalty at the cost of denying father the same.
I inhaled sharply and replied, “I love you both the same -just differently.” I went on to explain (because I wanted to be crystal clear), “there are things you and I do together, like go to the movies, and the mall, and things me and daddy do together, like drive around town on Saturday mornings, then come home and play music all afternoon.” Still holding my breath, you finally responded with a marginally satisfied, “I see.” — I never exhaled.
I didn’t know how adoption worked. I didn’t know if there was a return policy. Though you took me in when I was just a few months old, you adopted me at 5 years old. I was no more than 6 when you asked me that question. I don’t have many childhood memories, but that one is vivid.
I can still feel the sensation of fear and anxiety, not wanting to let you down. I’ve carried that with me all these years, even when you weren’t there to see me succeed or fail. I never wanted to let you down. I never wanted you to hold it against me. When you came back into my life, I was in such a dark place and spiraling fast.
Hitting rock bottom, only to realize I was only halfway there. Then crashing into rock bottom, only to realize God still wasn’t done with me falling. I wish I could have gone to you when it all thundered down, but even on your return, you came back bitter and angry. I couldn’t make sense of it.
In the movies, after so long apart, there’s always this beautiful reconciliation, mutual healing, and return to a space of love enveloped in forgiveness. I desperately wanted that for us. I wanted every void filled with light while casting out the darkness that had taken both of our hearts captive for so many years.
I wanted you to hold me in your arms and let my head rest on your lap as we used to when I was a child. I wanted to nuzzle my nose in your neck and smell your sweet scent of vanilla and honey. You always smelled like mom -always smelled like home. After being away from you for so long, it’s all I wanted upon your return.
Our relationship was so complicated, and I could never figure out why. I adored and worshiped you; you were a goddess in my eyes. I followed you everywhere you went. Carefully took stock of how you beautifully adorned yourself each Sunday. Dressed to the nines, your church hat always coordinated with your dress suit and shoes. The stockings were always a sheer nude and your gloves matched the color of your hat exactly. You did your hair before your makeup; perfume and jewelry were saved for last.
You were everything feminine and regal. Even on those days, you wore all white as an usher. No one looked better than you in an usher’s uniform, and you knew it. You also knew to make sure I matched your fly. You dressed me to be the prettiest little girl in church and then somehow resented me for it. It was very confusing.
I would get nervous when too many church mothers would dote after me because I didn’t want to upset you. I didn’t know what I was doing wrong or how to fix it, yet I tried desperately. I did everything I could; I followed your directions to a “T.” I modeled myself after you exactly; why couldn’t you see? It never occurred to me that in my desperate attempt to model myself after you, I was holding up a mirror to so much of your pain. “The vision of the perfect daughter.”
It never occurred to me that you might hate yourself for the secrets and sins you kept hidden, buried, and unnamed. Then one day, I learned her name, and it all came undone. The first daughter you had before me, the one that no longer lives. The web of secrets a family can hide is like a labyrinth with no end. I understand now there was no way out of the torture you created for yourself, so you took it out on me.
That’s the thing about mothers; ultimately, we never truly know them. We know one version of many. They are many different things to many different people, and each of our versions collectively is true. Our individual experiences and narratives don’t out way the experiences and narratives of others.
I didn’t know that then, but I certainly learned it after you died. Had I known then that you were so many different things to many different people, I might not have tried so hard to please you. It was an impossible task to achieve.
In the end, I just wanted to survive in a world you, yourself, were fighting to survive in…
-Mishel Noor
“Dear MahDear’ is a 3 part series. Read Part 2 here. Read Part 3 here.
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