For a long time after my mother died, I was angry. Sometimes I was angry that she had died when I was only 12, which made me feel like even more of a freak than I had when she was alive. Other times my anger was directed at her more personally, fixating on what I felt were her failings before she died. All through high school and college, I felt like kids who had “normal” mothers had learned things about life that I had not learned, and I held her responsible. How to be loved, how to feel secure in the world, and how to interact with strangers, for example.
Before my mother died, her addiction to alcohol made her unreliable, unpredictable, and moody. She could go from laughing to throwing things in a flash. What I had learned from her was to not trust adults and to never let my guard down.
When my daughter was a child, I read children’s books to her that taught lessons I had never learned: some days don’t go the way you want and it’s not your fault, someone else’s success doesn’t take anything from you, it’s ok to have needs and to ask for what you want, apologizing isn’t a sign of weakness.
As I parented my own daughter, I constantly realized what I had missed out on. When my daughter needed someone to advocate for her at school, I was there. When she needed to be reassured about her abilities, I was there. When she needed advice on social messiness, I was there. I had always suspected that kids with a mother had something I didn’t, but I didn’t quite know what it was. As I parented my own daughter, I learned what it was.
My anger intensified and I carried it with the indignation of the 12-year old girl I was when my mother died. Even when I had a happy memory of my mother, it was tainted by the rage I felt over what she hadn’t provided for me.
A few years ago, my therapist said something about my mother not being able to show up for me the way she probably wanted to. That reframing opened the door for me to rethink many of the beliefs I had been holding onto about my mother.
Instead of being angry with her for being an addict, I was able to feel compassion for someone who didn’t have the skills to cope with the stresses of her life. She came from an alcoholic home herself. Of her three siblings, it fell to her to care for their father when he was descending into dementia. Her marriage was a difficult one, and reading between the lines, I believe she was stalked by an ex. Certainly her life had not been an easy one.
When I think of her facing the challenges that may have led to her addiction, I wish she had lived in a time of more awareness and less shame. I imagine her waking up each morning and setting out to not drink, to be present for my sister and me—and herself. And then being disgusted with herself for not living up to that commitment, and my heart goes out to her.
Instead of being angry with her for not advocating for me, I was able to feel compassion for her never having had an advocate herself. While she may not have been outwardly affectionate, I remember her being incredibly supportive of other women who left bad situations, giving them rides to the airport or money or a place to sleep for a night. When I look for it, I can find the advocating spirit.
When I think of my mother as doing the best she could, I am filled with love and compassion for her. Holding a grudge with a dead person is a no-win situation. It’s exhausting to never be able to ask for an explanation, to know that an apology will never come. And I don’t need an apology from her. She did the best she could.
The Buddha said that holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. My mother is already dead, so holding onto anger toward her is particularly absurd and pointless. When I was able to let go of my anger, the weight of it transformed into tenderness.