Throughout my life, I have carried so much animosity for my mother.
More so, I think, than the average woman.
More so even, than the average teenage girl.
More so, I know, than is healthy.



My best memories of her are of when I was very little- maybe three or four years old. They are memories of her gentleness, her love. Her motherly embraces that tucked me in and shielded me from the outside world. It has been decades since I’ve felt that safe.



She started to pull away from me at the time when I needed her most- when my father lost his first leg. She was 33, I was five years old.
I started spending more time at my grandparents house. My grandma would make little treats and rock me in the rocking chair as we watched Saturday morning cartoons. My grandpa, a victim of alzheimers, would often forget who I was and would sit around the house with a blank stare, looking at a television that, more often than not, wasn’t even turned on.


In April of ’89, following in my fathers footsteps, I was diagnosed with Type One diabetes. She started to pay attention again, for a little while. Despite being hospitalized for a large portion of that year, 1st grade wasn’t all that bad.
2nd grade, however, was a whole other story. After getting settled back in at home, my life at school began to crumble.
My two best friends suddenly took a liking to using me as a target in their on-going joke of making me miserable. Every day it was a little meaner, a little more malicious than the last. I’d come back from recess, tears streaming down my face, while one of them told me to “go suck on an egg”, making a few of my classmates giggle.
And the fact that I was now “diseased” made me an even bigger punching bag, not only to my “friends” but to anyone else who happened to share in the knowledge of this little tid-bit of information.
My parents couldn’t be bothered with any of this. I’m not sure if they didn’t care, or if they just didn’t believe me. Maybe they didn’t want to believe me.



My little sisters birth when I was 9 and ½ got my hopes up, even though when presented with the news of my mothers pregnancy I threw the biggest temper tantrum of my life.
Unfortunately, what I feared would come about with the introduction of a new baby, inevitably did.
The little bit of attention I got from my parents thinned to even less. Virtually none, unless I were to make some sort of mistake, in which case WWIII would ensue, my parents raging about responsibility and teamwork.
I loved my little sister, who, at that point in my life, seemed to be the only person who didn’t ignore or intentionally hurt me. I took on the role of surrogate mother- feeding her, changing diapers, playing and spending time with her on a daily basis.
She was my buddy, my only friend in a world that had turned it’s back on me.



As soon as Hayley began kindergarten, my mother took it upon herself to switch from afternoons to day shift, with the intention of “being there” for her youngest daughter.
Myself, being 15 at the time and in school for more than 10 years, took this as a slap in the face. Apparently, I wasn’t worth as much time and effort on my mothers part.

Hayley took all kinds of extra- curricular activities, excelling in multiple attempts. Eventually, she ended up in dance, going every Tuesday and Thursday to a studio resembling a gigantic barn, where, in addition to boasting an envious quantity of ballet, tap and jazz classes, it also held a few karate and tae kwon do students. My sister was a natural at ballet and my mother was thrilled.
I sat at home and wrote short stories and poems, nabbing a couple of Editors Choice Awards from an accredited Poetry Society and was published in coffee table books of the same genre with titles like “Tranquil Rains of Summer” and even one entitled “America at the Millennium: The Best Poems and Poets of the 20th Century”. She was less impressed by this and I was never encouraged to pursue this talent. She seemed to think it was a scam.



When I was married in January of 2004, my mother seemed to disconnect herself from all the fuss and didn’t seem all that interested in the planning, only going with me to help pick out my dress because my grandma and my aunt seemed to be more involved than her.
When my husband and I were first wed by a pastor in a courthouse in Ohio, I didn’t even get a congratulations.
Okay, maybe I’m being a little harsh on her. She wasn’t really as hostile or bitter as I’m making her out to be but she certainly didn’t show half the enthusiasm I’d thought my news would bring out of her. After all, this man was quite the catch. A good-looking, good-hearted guy with a well paying job that covered me under his benefits, who’s family we had been acquainted with ever since I was a little girl. To top it off, he made me happier than I could ever remember. We were 100% in love.
Maybe she was upset by the fact that I was pregnant at my wedding.



The phone call with my mother after coming home from the doctors office, where I’d been shocked to learn that I was pregnant- 3 months pregnant- goes as follows:
Me: “I have something to tell you guys but I want to tell you all together. What are you doing tomorrow?”
Her: “Are you pregnant?”
Me: “(Sigh). Yes, Mom, I am.”
Her: “What are you gonna do?”
Me: “What do you mean? Mom, I’m already 3 months along!”
Her: “Well, you’d better take care of yourself.”
Me: (Sarcastically) “Thanks, Mom.”



I was brought to a therapist for the first time when I was seven. It was actually supposed to be family therapy but it was always just she and I and she always did the talking.
Two years later, when I was put on anti-depressants for the first time, she decided to get me a therapist of my own.
He was an older man, with red hair and a fake, goofy smile who I was extremely uncomfortable being around, let alone pouring my heart out to. Thus enters my mother, completely blindsiding me by gushing on and on about my “negative behavior”, my slipping grades, my lies and my overall cumbersome attitude at home. To my mortification, she even went so far as to complain to this man that I had been wearing her underwear when I had no clean ones. I remember my face growing red and hot, the anger boiling inside me. I sat back in all my heated rage and let her take the reigns. She shed a few tears and it was over. After that day, he was all hers.
My therapy had ended.

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