I have spent the majority of my adult life working out relationships. I am or have been a sister, a best friend, a co-worker, girlfriend, boss, wife, ex-wife, employee, step-mother, helper, and mentor. Figuring out how to show up for those has not always been easy, but it has been educational, even enlightening. But being a daughter was my greatest challenge. Now that all of the parental figures are gone, I realize that I was a daughter first.
Maybe because I was the oldest? But I had no guidance, models or boundaries. My mother loved playing dress-up with her doll (me) and my father was out of the picture by the time I was two. (Oh, I saw him almost once a year for the next 9 years – but he was not skilled in familial communications.) My mother remarried when I was four – to a kind and wonderful man, but she stood (or tried to stand) between me all others.
I was her mini-me. No. Really. In fact, once she had entered the Facebook universe, even Zuckerberg couldn’t tell us apart. FB defaulted all pictures of me to her profile. Imagine my husband’s surprise when FB announce that he had just married “Charlotte”. Ahhhhhh, technology! She loved it because to her that meant she didn’t look her age. I thoughtfully left out the obvious explanation, that I had lived so hard, I looked much, much older than my years.
The Love/Hate/Love relationship I had with my mother kept me from seeing the truth about myself for a many years (and many 5th steps). Once my mirror was wiped clean and the reflection was clear, I realized I was so much like my mother, that it was easier to be mad at her than to commit to changing those aspects of me that reminded me of her. I also realized what an asshole I had been to her when I should have known better. A vicious cycle of denial/healing/anger/denial/healing/anger, etc.
Being Charlotte’s daughter was easier for me than it was for her to be R’s mother. Whatever dreams she had and had given up became the equivalent of Marley’s chains – the difference being she blamed everyone else and took no responsibility. I learned that strategy, too. But I had a deep desire to see my life as it was and did a ton of work on my self and soul to get to the other side of blame and shame.
However, I was ever her daughter… and the anger that produced was harder for me to bear than it was for me to deny. A long-time before I had found a way to heal, I sometimes went years without seeing her, and months without speaking to her, because I didn’t know how not to blame her.
It took many years before I was able and ready to have the conversation, defined as making my amends in some circles, where I held myself accountable for the hurt I caused her. I was willing and resistant – but I believed that I would find freedom in this step, so I made the appointment. I traveled to Indiana from the east coast, met up with her in her senior-living apartment and sat down to tell my truth. Just as I started to open my mouth, I realized three things:
- I had done all of the things I was about to share.
- She deserved this amends
- She had loved me anyway.
She. Had. Loved. Me. Anyway. WOW I could barely breathe. That was something I hadn’t ever been aware of before, and something I had not learned how to do. Gratitude exploded in my chest – before I ever started speaking – I was humbled in a way I had never been.
That visit went better than she expected and was harder than I had expected. But it changed the tone of every conversation, visit and holiday going forward. But the work was mine to do – not hers. I stopped living in expectation and started asking for things. I asked for her patience, asked for her accountability. I asked her what she needed and how I could help. Not because I wasn’t a good daughter before, but because I was a better woman now. I used to think that I HAD to deliver whatever she asked. But I had learned that I could say no. I had learned that we could negotiate, if necessary.
Really, what I had learned was that we were two separate people, not a unit dependent on one another to survive. Once I started living like that, we both got better. Because I taught her what I had learned rather than demanding who she needed to be for me.
I’m so blessed to have had teachers all around me as I needed them. I learned how to free us both and she agreed to the new roles – and found teachers of her own.
She lived with my husband and I for the last 5 years of her life. The fear that sometimes comes with dying opened a few old wounds on both sides – but we didn’t settle into them. I kept telling the truth, with love and she came to accept the pending reality and tried not to waste any of the precious time we had left.
Of course, she died on Mother’s Day – to make a point, no doubt (a joke told by a friend that made me laugh out loud). My brother and I were with her the evening before, singing, laughing and loving each other. We each kissed her simultaneously on opposite sides of her forehead and said, “we’ll see you tomorrow” – but tomorrow never came.
And just like that, my role as daughter ended, leaving me wanting more. Thank God.
