My Mum and me... a complicated relationship [Part I]

When your own mother, whether intentionally or not, is not able, or is not available, to love you in the right way, it can interrupt your development, and you may even form a strong belief about yourself that you are, in fact, “unlovable” … What a lie.

My mum passed away on the 15th of August, 2019.  But, it’s not the first time she has “died”;

There was once a time in my life that pain associated with losing my mother caused me to shut down, I couldn’t attend school, I couldn’t eat.  And yet, from the moment on Aug 15 as I witnessed her transition from this world to the next, I held such a fortified peace.  Yes, I cried, I even threw up.  And yes, it is early days, I will miss her so very much, but mostly - I smile when I think of my mum.

I always knew I would share this story, I just didn’t realise it would be NOW… but I am actually ready. Part I…

I once read something that struck me so deeply:

“A young boy lies in a hospital bed. He is frightened and in pain. Burns cover 40% of his small body.  Someone has doused him with alcohol and then, unimaginably, set him on fire.

He cries for his mother.

His mother has set him on fire” 

(Verrier 1993)

I came across this at around the age of 25 years, when reading this book written to communicate aspects of what an adopted child experiences.  So I was confused; I’m not adopted; so why did I identify so profoundly with this particular narrative?  Why did it awaken a painful aspect that I didn’t realise still existed within me? …The fact is there was a raw wound inside me that this powerful imagery exposed.  That primal need for comfort from ‘mother’, whether she is giving it or not, is innate, universal and inexplicable, and was an unmet need in me still festering.

My mother was a special person.  I know… ‘everyone is special’, but she was such a gifted woman with so much character and spirit about her.  Hilariously quick-witted, charming, sharp, skilled in countless areas, super-fun when she was in the right mood, she was someone I admired so much.

As an infant she would’ve carried me, I know fed me at her breast. I’m here because she provided care when I was a helpless babe in arms.  Growing up she sewed, knitted or crocheted almost every single item of clothing I wore. We always had enough to eat. She spoke to us in her language - Kiribati. She gifted us with an appreciation for rhythm and the ability to harmonise in singing by simply demonstrating it herself.

However, as I observed her generally unpredictable behaviour I deduced that she wasn’t usually safe, and therefore, ‘not safe’.  But God, I needed her so badly.  Even in my late 30’s I would have extremely low times where all I could utter through tears was “mum… I needed you”.

We all behave certain ways for reasons.  I don’t know everything that shaped my mother in her childhood and youth.  I do know a few things – she was the second of eleven children her mother bore, and was handed to her maternal grandmother to be raised until her early teens when her grandmother died whereupon mum was returned to her own family, to siblings who didn’t know her.  As an aware adult now I can see mum viewed the world from an abandoned and rejected perspective, and that (wrong) same position I have also had to contend with and overcome.

The act of forgiving can be aided when we can understand slightly the path someone has walked.  Forgiveness is critical for our own recovery.  It’s actually a self-serving act to forgive.  Consider this saying:

“when I forgave, I set a prisoner free. Little did I know that the prisoner… was me”

Mum’s mental health declined rapidly when I was around seven years old.  At the time we were living in the Solomon Islands.  Without Dad’s knowledge, my sister and I were exposed to many harmful, frightening and violent situtations, usually directed at or involving mum.  More than once she attempted suicide in our presence.  Something in me shut down, I told my young self “You cannot need her, close that door”. 

In protectiveness of mum, I won’t go into more detail here, but I know these experiences were the root of all anxiety I have faced in the years that followed.   

When I was eight, Dad discovered some of the things that were taking place, and he abducted my sister and me (eight and 10 years old respectively) in very dramatic fashion.  It was necessary.  It saved our lives.  Nonetheless it contributed further to moulding the very fragile and wobbly me. 

We had no contact with; nor did we see mum at all for three years, and as an eight year old, that is equal to death.  According to my sister I cried for her at night. Like the aforementioned-boy with burns all over his body, it didn’t matter if mum was harmful, I couldn’t help but need her.  Even with priding myself on having a good memory, I cannot recover this time at all; so deep was the trauma.

For many years, if I heard of someone’s parent dying, I felt it so acutely, I could always connect with it.  

When I was eleven, (we were back in New Zealand by now) it was decided that it was time we visit mum, who had been back in Kiribati since the separation. 

Emma and I were struck with terror – we couldn’t express this to Dad though, as we had been conditioned to a “suck it up/grin and bear it, there is no one who can help you”-mentality.   

The mum we last knew was volatile and dangerous.  In fact during the flight we quietly prayed together that the plane would crash (!)  And when the pilot informed us a short time later that an engine had failed but “not to worry” (!?) Emma and I turned to eachother in glee; and rejoiced, truly!  …(Unfortunately for us at the time)  we made it – and spent a three week holiday with mum. 

The night before we left her to return to New Zealand, the darkness and hopelessness was a burden so great.   Mum, Emma and I were anticipating intense loss and were all scrambling away from that unbearable feeling as it loomed inevitably closer. 

Upon boarding the Air Nauru 737 Boeing Jet, and before taxi-ing away, I could see mum behind the outdoor barrier at Bonriki Airport. Her face shrouded in grief, I felt nothing but desperation.  I was struggling to breathe.  Even now, tears can sometimes spring to my eyes when I remember the eleven year old me seated in that plane.  Utterly obliterated.  I couldn’t even fasten my own belt. I couldn’t function.  An aunt accompanying us had to hold me for almost 24 hours straight during a stopover in Fiji – I was physically in pain.   Back to New Zealand, back to winter, back to school.  How?  I was walking dead. 

I experienced a breakdown of sorts. I would leave school, meander back home, trying to hide my face and tears from passing cars, unlock our front door and let myself in.  For at least a week I stayed home, Dad unaware of this as he left for work very early. 

I discovered a photo album where mum had the same expression she did when we left her in Kiribati – and how I shrieked uncontrollably, for what felt like 20 minutes – until the phone rang - our neighbour asking “is everything ok there, I heard someone howling”… With a quiet strained voice I denied knowing what it was, hung up the phone and continued, but into a pillow.  I felt 100% alone. 

That was August 1989, exactly 30 years ago.

(t/b cont.)