When my mother entered hospice care over 18 months ago, I mistakenly thought I had completed the emotional work necessary to come to terms with our complicated past. I believed we had reconciled everything because I had processed so much of the turmoil. It was a comforting illusion that didn’t last. Recently, I’ve been reminded that trauma has a way of resurfacing, often when you least expect it.
My older sister, who is five years my senior, went to prison when I was just 18. Back then, none of us had the words or understanding to truly acknowledge the wounds that existed within our family. After a year-long stint in a rather controlling ministry, I returned home to my mother’s modest apartment, with my baby niece in tow. It felt surreal, as if I had been thrust into adulthood without any context. I took a job at a bagel shop, only to find that much of my paycheck was claimed by the government since I was living on my mother’s couch.
Having no prior experience with babies, this new reality was overwhelming. I quickly realized that balancing a full-time job with childcare was far beyond my mental capacity. Perhaps it was my struggle with this new life or my lack of understanding of our family’s dysfunction, but I overlooked significant warning signs about my mother.
She relished the time when my sister was incarcerated. With her grandchild around full-time, she embraced her role as the doting grandmother, casting herself as a selfless mother who would give endlessly. Yet, the truth was that she had tormented both her daughters for years, raising us in an environment where fear was a constant presence. Her need for attention and martyrdom only served to fracture our family further.
She never questioned my struggles in school, dismissing them as signs of rebellion rather than reflecting on the underlying issues. Similarly, when my sister fell into drug addiction, my mother only expressed disgust, failing to grasp the complexities of her situation. Whenever something traumatic happened to us, my mother would invariably ask what we had done to deserve it, insisting we were at fault for allowing it to occur.
As my sister had more children amidst her battles with addiction and domestic abuse, our mother suddenly shifted her focus. For the first time, she stopped pretending to be gravely ill and devoted herself entirely to her grandchildren. I was mostly absent during this time, having moved away for college and getting married at 21. I tried to craft a new life hundreds of miles away, only to find that my marriage was just as dysfunctional as my upbringing.
When I returned to Minnesota after my divorce, I discovered that my family had spiraled into chaos. My sister desperately needed help, as did her children. Strangely, my mother, who often preached the virtues of prayer and fasting, chose to involve the police and child protective services instead. I was apprehensive about her decision to report my sister for child abuse, fearing the consequences of such actions.
I had never dared to challenge my mother openly before, so speaking out against her intentions was terrifying. Yet, I felt compelled to suggest exploring other avenues before resorting to police involvement. I cautiously explained that once that door was opened, there might be no turning back, and I feared the outcome would be detrimental.
My mother dismissed my concerns outright, insisting I didn’t know what was truly happening. She claimed there was more than just drug use and neglect; she accused my sister and her partner of sexual abuse. I can’t say for certain whether her allegations were true, as our family has a complicated history with such claims. My mother often recounted tales of her own childhood traumas, but the lines between truth and manipulation were often blurred.
Eventually, my mother did contact the authorities, resulting in a lengthy report accusing my father, sister, and their partners of abuse. In the wake of it all, my father passed away unexpectedly, and my mother interpreted this as divine confirmation of her actions. However, her plans fell apart when all four of my sister’s children were placed with their paternal relatives, leaving my mother without the grandkids she had so desperately sought to control.
I, too, felt the effects of this loss. I had been an engaged aunt, and suddenly, that connection vanished. As my sister struggled with her own demons, our relationship became strained. My grandmother passed away around the same time, and it seemed like I had lost my entire family in a matter of weeks.
My mother became a shell of her former self, fixating on the absence of her grandchildren and expressing despair over the meaninglessness of life without them. She often lamented about how holidays were worthless without family, urging me to seek companionship elsewhere.
Recently, my sister and I have confronted our guilt over not visiting our mother in hospice. Neither of us anticipated that her declining health would reopen old wounds. Throughout our lives, she has claimed to be on the brink of death, but this time feels different. With each passing year, her narrative has shifted from ailments to conspiracy theories, often diverting attention from the real issues at hand.
The emotional toll of our upbringing is complex, and my decision to distance myself from my mother during this time does not make me a monster. It’s a difficult reality to accept, but self-preservation is essential. If you’re navigating similar challenges, resources like those from March of Dimes can be incredibly helpful.
In the end, it’s important to acknowledge that setting boundaries isn’t a sign of weakness. It’s a necessary step in healing.
Summary
The author reflects on their complicated relationship with their mother, who is now in hospice care. Despite feeling guilt for not visiting, the author acknowledges the trauma and dysfunction that have marked their family history. The struggles of their sister with addiction and the mother’s toxic behaviors have led to a distancing from both. As they confront old wounds, they recognize the need for self-preservation and boundary-setting in the face of familial chaos.