divorcing my mom (working title)

I think most daughters have challenges in their relationship with their mom.  It's probably also true that most people struggle to identify and connect with their parents.  We all have things about growing up we wish we could change.

... and for a long time, I thought my life at home was just those things. My parents taught me I was a difficult child.  My mother wished I had never been born, and scolded me and hit me for so many things I lost track of all the wrongs I committed from when I was very young to the very present.

I don't know how many times I've said sorry but not really understood why, or felt I had to appease my mother because I'm so 'bad'.

The reality is, I grew up with a mom who is mentally ill.  Her sadness, depression and narcissism corroded anything good we could have had.. and now as a septuagenarian who's recovering from a stroke, it all seems different.  Worse, because I am made to feel obligated to accept her vitriol and apologize to her for her pain.

I keep kissing her ass, spending money I don't have on gifts, dinners and events, telling her she is beautiful and that I love her.... even though my words are met with, "You're fat" "I can't stand you" "Get out of my sight" "I prefer to surround myself with beautiful people, that makes me feel better. I wish you'd get out of my sight because you're so hideous"  "I'm embarrassed for my neighbors to set eyes on you" "You're ugly" "No one can stand you" ... sigh, or far more damaging words like, "I love your son the way I could never love you" or yesterday's, "No Elissa, I've never liked you and I never will," when I went to visit her with my son despite my preference not to.

Somehow, I believed her to be right so many times, I can't see anything else in the mirror but the hideous worthless monster she always says I am.

She broke her wrist mysteriously over a week ago, and refused to get treatment.  On the phone she'd call me and say it was my fault for annoying her so much, that somehow from 130 miles away, I broke her wrist and caused her that pain.

When my mom had her stroke two years ago, I was the first on the scene.  With my child under one arm and my phone in the other hand, I was juggling calls, speaking with doctors, ensuring she'd live and be safe.  I was the one who contacted my sister and father and made the initial arrangements to get my mother to the ER and to safety.  I made the tough calls, and did my best.

My mother was immobile ... and I stayed by her side, cleaned her, fed her and took care of her.  Even in this fragile state, so close to the possibility of death, I had to sit there and take her vitriol as though I deserved it.  Despite everything, I held her hand, made sure she ate, told her I loved her and did my best to give her whatever comfort she needed.  My son missed months of school, my job went south, I was unable to keep up my life and gave it up (again) to care for her.

It was during that time that I found her will where it was explicitly stated that I was to get nothing, that I was a 'threat' and a 'danger' to her.  Despite the fact that I cleaned her like a baby because she kept soiling herself and demanded she be cared for by the nurses, that I was ALWAYS the one to be there to get her to emergency rooms, nurse her after surgery and do my best to help her through one illness or another... I was a threat.  She had blogs and stories I had written over the years stapled to the document proving that my expressing my challenged relationship with her made me a horrible person and she was afraid for her life because I was writing such things.

(I'm pretty sure this blog will be the last nail in that disowned coffin)

You see, up until my mom's stroke, I really thought that I was a really bad person.  She had me believing I really was a challenging child to raise, and a difficult person to love.  Her abuse seemed justified and I somehow thought that I was truly unlovable.  This sort of scarred view of myself, this repugnant picture created for me ... has made it difficult for me to accept love the way I deserve, or realize that I'm not really the things she says.

My mom is depressed and mentally ill.  But as a kid, I thought this was just how moms who have difficult children behave.  That all of her upset was on me, I made her unhappy.  I never really understood or could realize that this had nothing to do with me. I was forced to go to therapy as a kid, and I hated it.  Each therapist wanted to 'dig deep' and figure out why I was such a horrible kid.  They tried to medicate me, scold me and treat me as though I were this miscreant they should all find a way to tame.

All this time I was put into programs, boarding school, therapy... my mom was the one who really needed to do lay down on the couch.

To be clear, around the time of my mom's stroke, I had a major life changing lightbulb moment.  When I came to the realization that she was clinically depressed and that she was really very sick, I was able to see that she did the best she could and that she didn't have the capacity to be the mom because she was so damaged.  I made a conscious decision to break the fetters of my constant pain by practicing acceptance and forgiveness.  It was an unbelievable breakthrough, to see my mother for the broken bird she is and be able to love her despite her inability to love me.

This forgiveness hasn't changed.  I rationally know that she did the best she could, and that was incapable of giving me the mother's love I craved and needed my whole life.

To be clear, no matter what has happened, I've always and still do Love my mother unconditionally.  Even now, in this moment of excruciating pain, I still see her as this beautiful woman and love her with this desire that she'd one day approve of me and love me back.

I've been told many times that I deserved to have a mom who loves me unconditionally... but I got a bum hand.  That it is ok to feel like this bad deal hurts and to wish I had more parental love in my life.  It's why I over compensate with my own son, treating him with extra love, hugging him so much it can drive him bonkers, telling him all day long I love him and that he is awesome just the way he is.  I get to love my son the way my mother never loved me, or something twisted like that.

In a dharma talk I heard at the beginning of my buddhist journey, the teacher talked about boundaries and taught me that they are necessary for our own survival.  I've gone extended periods of time not talking to my mom, or reluctantly screened a call from time to time to preserve a moment that is happy.  Right now, I'm going to create a different kind of boundary.  I'm divorcing my mom.  It's not out of hate, because I love my mother so much.  That may seem inane but... I'm a kid who wants my mother's approval.  I'm that kid who goes out of her way so much to obtain my mom's attention that I'll do anything for it, even if those choices have been unhealthy.  I wasn't difficult, I was a child starving for affection and love from a women incapable of loving me.  This quest has been very damaging to me, and it's time to stop searching for the holy grail of love and approval from the person who is supposed to love me ... It's time to end the pain of the seeking, and to break out of the prison of this pain.

I'm divorcing my mom.  It's not out of hate or spite ... but more like self preservation.  As my 45th birthday approaches, I need to reevaluate what my life looks like and the life I want to have.  I can't go another day craving love from a person who has chosen to resent me for being born.  It's unhealthy for my well-being to be blamed for every horrible happenstance even when I'm over a 100 miles away.  I can't keep looking in the mirror and hating the person I see because the tape I keep playing over and over is my mother's voice telling me I'm hideous.

On a holiday morning where everyone is having a dreamy breakfast, filled with laughter and fun, I'm realizing that I need to break free of the relationship that causes me the most harm... to preserve myself, I have to divorce my mother.

At this moment, I am mourning the potential to have a good relationship with my mother because any sort of spark or belief that my mom would be a 'mother' to me is a fantasy as fantastic as a furry creature leaving me gobs of chocolate in colored eggs today.

there is always room for forgiveness, healing and change

ten years ago, I was heading for the zenith of my PR career.
ten years ago, I was engaged and then married.
ten years ago, I was super skinny.
ten years ago, my father and I were estranged for more than a decade.
ten years ago, I found my Dad......

It was March 2000, and there was only a month left until the wedding.  I was a pretty chill bridezilla, as a seasoned event planner, I had pulled the details together quickly and seamlessly, the guest list was small (under 70 including dates) the scene was set.  Everything with the wedding was 'perfect', and I was pretty excited how well things fell into place.

But there was something missing.  There was an empty void inside of me, the pain of feeling like I wasn't worthy ... a disconnect that felt unfixable.

I was missing my Dad.  He had been out of my life for over ten years, and the pain of that was devastating.  I did all sorts of work around it, from joining Lifespring, therapy, counseling, support groups, heavy drugs, and adopting friends Dad's as father figures.  Each of the outlets provided me some comfort, but none of them answered the questions for me that played on a continuous loop in my head that started with the word 'Why'.

I was never Daddy's Girl, that spot was reserved for my sister.  But he loved me, and would tell me things you want a Dad to say, like, "you're way prettier than your sister."  Ok, not healthy but ... I loved and love that he tells me this.  Sick, yes, I am.

The month before the wedding, March 2000, my mother and I were on the phone.  She had let me know that she had seen Harvey, an old friend of Dad's, in her neighborhood walking his dogs.  She mentioned this to me a few times over a couple of weeks.  So one night, I dial 411 and get his number.  With my fiancee at my side, I dialed Harvey.

"Hi Harvey, I'm not sure if you remember me, I'm Elissa, Bob's daughter.  You haven't seen or heard from me in a long time.  My mom had said she had seen you around her neighborhood, and I was hoping you might know where my Dad is."

Harvey responded, "Of course I remember you.  Yes, I can put you in touch with your Dad, are you sure you really want to talk with him?"

"Oh yes, if it's not too much trouble, I have a pen and paper, could I get his number," shaking, I'm waiting for the information.

"Elissa, I can put you in touch with him," he repeated, "but, are you sure you want to speak with him?"

"Yes, really, I do," nervous but sure, I responded.

"How about I put him on the phone now," I could hear Harvey smiling through the receiver, "He's sitting right here.  I haven't seen him in years, and he's visiting with me right now!"

My father got on the phone and within minutes we had orchestrated a plan to meet downtown at Temple Bar for a martini.  Our reunion was six martini's deep, and by the end, I realized that all the therapy, counseling, drugs and support groups were bullshit, I really just needed to see my dad and get that sort of affirmation that only could come from him.

I did ask him the big question, 'Why."  His answer was, "I really don't know, but I'm sorry."

In that moment, I surrendered to realizing that was enough, that he was a suffering human being, who made a lot of bad choices.  He shared that he thought of calling me, but each time, he felt worse that more time had passed.

From there.... things changed.  He was back in my life.  He still wasn't invited to the wedding, my mom and sister put the kybosh to that.  I wish I had stood my ground, and it saddens me he wasn't there but... clearly, there will be a next one.  Well, I can hope.

After 9/11, I convinced my mother and sister to invite him to Thanksgiving, and from that point on, our dysfunctional wacky family was reunited.  At that holiday dinner, I refused the champagne, and announced that I was pregnant.  He might of missed the wedding, but he hasn't missed a day of my son's life.   The first people to meet the Zbot after his Dad, was my mom and MY DAD.  In fact, it was my father who handed Zoren to me the first time I finally got to hold him in my arms.


After the torture of the worst divorce in history, my parents made the 'War of the Roses' look like a side show at the Big Apple Circus .... years and years apart, my parents are friends, good friends.  Dad has been making amends to each of us.  He has taken care of my mom during her stroke, cancer and other emergency visits to the hospital.  He visits my sister in Boston.  My father is back in my life, and ... we have had some BIG breakthroughs in our relationship, particularly this year.  I took a stand and made amends to him for my part in the difficulties of our relationship over matzoh ball soup at Passover dinner at my mom's.  And ... most recently, he took a stand and stood up for ME with my family when I needed him to.  After years of crying that my Dad doesn't get my back, I got to see that he really does.

Today he turned 68, although, he would prefer if you would just say 59.  He just went through a couple of years of pain and surgery and I am seeing the impermanence of life unfolding before me.  He's not the tough, heartless, ruthless business man of his past... he too has been broken by his own suffering.  Where I once felt disdain and resentment, I feel genuine love and compassion.  The night we were reunited at the Temple Bar, I discovered my father was a broken man.  I forgave him easily, but it certainly hasn't been easy and smooth between us these past ten years.  Both of us have worked on it, and while our relationship may not be the example of ideal, it ain't bad.  I have a dad, and my son has a very close relationship with his grandfather. 


I'm so grateful to have my Dad in my life.  I know that something strange and mysterious was at work the day I found him at Harvey's apartment.  In these times where I struggle with a continuous crisis of faith, I have to acknowledge that something must have been at work that I was able to find him in one phone call.

So Dad, Happy Birthday.  Thanks for being in my life, and for teaching me that there is always room for forgiveness, healing and change.  I love you very much.