She was there for my first breath. I was there for her last. And for however end of life moments can go, this one was filled with love. My brother and I held her hand. Tears streamed down her face for the last hour. My stepmom even stroked her hair. We gently said she could let go and that we loved her, and then she took her last labored breath. It seemed like forever before the final exhale came.
We wept tears of sadness. Our relationship with our mother had been complicated to say the least. But we let her know that she was loved right up until the end. I wish I could report that in the days after, we would find the same. But instead, we found a letter and journals and several other signs of bitterness and angst directed towards my brother and I. Spreadsheets documenting all that she had done for us. Even in death, she still was the spiteful angry mother we saw at times. Not the face that she presented to the world of course, she was a master of disguise. An expert at putting on a mask for the show.
If you were a friend to her, you knew her to be the life of the party. She heaped gifts and love upon her friends. Even strangers. She spent money like it was water and used it as a way to buy favor and attention. She even spoke highly of us and when she was angry, she rarely let people see that side. Instead, she had a wonderful way of drawing the listener in and making them judgemental of the person who had done her wrong.
As a child, I thought she hung the moon. I remember smelling her skin while she would hug me from behind. I remember her laughing and dancing often. But I started to see things as I aged. First, it was the rage and anger she expressed to my father about the inequities of her own parents choosing her brother over her. It carried over into how she treated my brother and I — even babysitters noticing that mom let my brother get away with murder. There were years of sharing birthdays with him because she didn’t believe it was fair that he had a birthday so close to Christmas nor could she bare to give me a gift without giving him one too. Things had to be fair.
I honestly didn’t mind. I adored my brother and my parents too. I strode to make them proud. I silently did what I was asked and feared the repercussions when I failed. Especially from my mother, who could flip on a switch.
I think I knew something was wrong with her mentally in my teens. My cousin had come for a visit with his friend. While he was out, she went on a tirade about the mess and about how she felt used. Once he arrived home, he was greeted with a different person. I remember emptying the dishwasher while she was on the phone with friends, only to get off the phone and rant about how awful this person was and how much of a liar they were. As I developed adult relationships, I started to see that something was off with my mother.
By the time I was in college, the pressure to be perfect became too great. I was a self-described stress puppy and my mother threatened to expose my imperfections whenever I failed. And then, I decided, I would be an open book. I wouldn’t hide any more, my thoughts, my feelings, my beliefs from the world. It happened when I had burped in the kitchen. She threatened to open the door and report it to the boys playing basketball in my front yard. So I opened the door, “Hey Paul!” I shouted, “I burp, fart, spit and curse.” “Cool,” he responded. It was the first step I took to pushing back.
Even still the need to be perfect in her eyes and my father’s was strong. After a particularly long day, my mother lit into me about not cleaning the kitchen. I was exhausted from exams, projects, extra curriculars and volunteering my time with special needs kids. Her face red with anger, her eyes big, she pointed her finger in my face and belittled me until I was reduced to a shaking mess. I remember retreating to my room, hiding in the darkness of my closet and sobbing. I don’t remember how I found a plastic fork, but when my father found me, I was rocking back and forth and scratching my wrists with the fork.
My mother took me to our family doctor after that incident and Dr. G had said that I was overly stressed and sleep deprived. Then he excused my mom from the room and talked to me. His final advice “you need to leave the house for your mental health.”
It would be another two years before that would happen. Years of therapy later, I would come to understand my mom’s borderline personality disorder. Her symptoms progressed the year my grandmother died.
At the urging of my own therapists, I created healthy boundaries, that I often dissolved because I so craved a mother-daughter relationship. Being a child of a BPD was isolating. The gaslighting to this day has me doubting my own memories and stories. It wasn’t always awful. She loved to shop and spend money. She loved to do things big like TEXAS. We always joked about her extravagence. We loved her. Through it all.
Today marks the anniversary of her death. I share all of the back story because it doesn’t diminish the sadness that I feel. People loved her but she was complicated and even fewer really knew her and in that is a lot more pain.
I wrote this for healing but also because I know there are so many people out there who’s grief is only complicated by the loss of a family member with mental health issues.
I rest in the fact that I took care to love and provide her with the best crossover possible. I can only imagine in my heart that she regretted leaving us with the legacy she did, rather than letting us feel loved. As a mother myself, I know I would. I rest in that.