Mother

In the quiet, muffled space between what is said and what remains unsaid, I find the connection that ties my life to my mother’s. It’s a connection built on lies, on things unspoken, on truths shaped to fit a particular narrative. As if truth-telling would disrupt the fragile balance between us, leaving us both exposed in ways neither of us could tolerate. My mother, a woman who clung to appearances, who maintained a controlled exterior in the face of any challenge to her carefully constructed reality, is the one who taught me how to lie. Not through explicit instruction, but through silence, through the understanding that some truths were better left unspoken.

The lies started small. Over time, they grew, becoming more complex, more ingrained, until they became a part of who I was, a way of navigating the world, particularly in my relationship with her. I became adept at hiding the truth, not just from her, but from myself and in my relatoinships as well. And in doing so, I became the daughter she needed—one who didn’t push, who didn’t challenge, who kept the peace (But at times, I could no longer maintain peace for either of us because the chaos became too overwhelming to bear alone. As a result, when peace was no longer an option for me, truths erupted like grenades of anger and bouts of slights. You could see how much I was hurting, despite your own pain, but you chose not to acknowledge the suffering in my eyes, the tears rolling down my cheeks. Maybe it was because you couldn’t bear to admit that you had no idea what you were doing, that you, too, were lost. It’s painful to realize in hindsight that, yes, you were a terrible parent, and so was Dad, and that doesn't deserve forgiveness, no matter what anyone says).

But today, I realized something else—something that had been quietly lurking in the background, like a shadow I’d never quite managed to catch in the light. This propensity I’ve developed over the years to render myself invisible, to shrink away, to occupy as little space as possible, has its roots deep in my childhood. Growing up, I learned to shrink my emotions, to push aside my own needs and desires, to make room for yours—your pain, your dreams, your feelings, your thoughts. In making myself small, I was trying to protect you, or maybe just to survive in the space you had left for me.

I think often about attachment theory, about the ideas of Klein, Winnicott, Fairbairn. They speak of the early bonds we form, the deep, often unconscious connections that shape us from the very beginning. The mother is seen as the primary figure, the one from whom all other attachments originate. Our ability to love, to trust, to feel secure in the world is rooted in this first relationship. But what happens when that relationship is built on a foundation of lies, when there is a constant, unspoken distance?

There’s always been a gap between us, an emotional distance that no amount of time or effort has been able to bridge. It’s a gap I’ve come to accept, a gap that defines much of who I am and how I relate to others. Despite what anyone might say—professionals, friends, books—we all long for that maternal embrace, the one we imagine could make us whole. We search for it in others, in surrogate families, in chosen relationships, but the wound remains. Like a scar, it may heal over time, but the mark is always there, a reminder of what was lost, of what was never fully given.

The idea that there may never be a bridge is something we rarely talk about. Even professionals, those who are supposed to guide us to healing, seldom admit to it, that there might never be a solution to this relationship other than to protect yourself, to heal yourself, and to control what you can control. Perhaps because to acknowledge it would be to confront their own wounds, their own scars, or to acknowledge that sometimes there is not an answer to a problem, and that last bit is a hard one to swallow.

Carl Jung once said that the forest is a symbol of the unconscious, a place where we confront death, where we are forced to choose between life and death. I’ve felt this over the past year, as I’ve shrunk myself, physically and emotionally, trying to fit into the narrow space that my relationship with my mother has carved out for me. I’ve lost weight, lost parts of myself, and in the process, I’ve felt the pangs of a life not fully lived (despite having lived quite a full life. I don't want to give the impression that I haven't done the things I've always wanted to do—like running away from home, traveling all around the world, not looking back, and enjoying the luxuries I've only ever dreamed of—but more on that later), of a self suppressed. The other day, while working out—trying, for once, to take care of my body—I felt a sudden ache in my chest, tears coming to my eyes as I thought of her, of her upcoming visit, of all the things I will never say (but only wish I could because I need a hug, a long hug, a never ending hug, to cry in your arms).

There have been so many moments in my life that she knows nothing about, and I know that this is how it will always be. I think of Ocean Vuong’s On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, where he writes to his mother, fully aware that she will never read his words, that she cannot. It’s an act of love, but also of resignation, an acknowledgment of the distance that will never be closed. And so I write to you, mother, with the same understanding. There are so many things I wish I could tell you, but I know that neither of us could bear the weight of those truths. And so it shall be, the lies, the silence, the distance that binds us together and keeps us eternally apart.

And now, with this realization fresh in my mind, I wonder what our encounter will be like when I see you next week. Will I shrink myself again, fall back into the familiar patterns of old? Or will I stand my ground, holding onto this newfound awareness, even if only for a moment? I don’t know. But I do know that whatever happens, this realization has shifted something in me, even if just slightly. Perhaps that’s enough for now.


August 15, 2024