I hesitated to write this post about my adoptive mom. Yesterday was her birthday. She would have been 83-years old. She died in 2008 of Alzheimer’s disease. It has come to my attention recently that I still carry trauma wounds that need attention, and writing is one of the ways I process difficult feelings and emotions.

My adoptive mom was an RN. She returned to school later in life to complete her nursing education; I must have been in preschool or early elementary at the time — my memories are fuzzy. I do remember her taking me to class with her on occasion, likely when she was unable to find a sitter. Looking back, I realize there was so much about my mom’s life that I knew very little about. I knew her as my mother, but I didn’t know much about the woman she was beyond that role.

When I was a very young girl, I don’t remember much physical affection. I know she and my adoptive father loved me, but I don’t recall either ever engaging in play with me. I was an extremely insecure child — slept with a blanket beyond the age considered acceptable and drank from a bottle longer than I probably should have. I remember “the maid” throwing my blanket away because it was literally in tatters. I suspect my mom had her do it. I remember the gutwrenching grief that followed, which lasted days, perhaps weeks. That blanket had been a source of comfort and security to me, and losing it was profoundly painful. Looking back, I recognize that those attachments reflected a need for comfort and security.

In elementary school, I began having painful stomaches, and I frequently cried to my first grade teacher, asking her to call my mom to be checked out of school. On one occasion, my mom picked me up in the morning before class had even begun. When we got home, she promptly spanked and yelled at me. Spanking was, of course, a common form of discipline at the time, and I received my fair share of it. As I grew older, the stomachaches subsided, but I carried with me an intense shyness and great difficulty asking for help, especially from teachers or other adults. I learned at a subconsious level that expressing distress might not necessarily bring comfort.

My parents, particularly my mom, sheltered me. They were overprotective in many ways, and this became increasingly troublesome as I grew older. It was during preadolescence that the relationship with my mom became increasingly tense. While most teens were beginning to establish greater independence, my mom exerted more control. She chose the activities I was allowed to participate in and made it clear when she didn’t like certain friends or didn’t want me hanging out with them.

My mom had wild mood swings. On weekends, our home was often filled with tension as she cleaned the home or made meals. When she was angry, she yelled. Her anger was often directed at me, but also my dad, whom she critized often. He rarely fought back. There were, however, a few verbally aggressive arguments between them that were particularly frightening to my younger self.

Both of my parents abused alcohol and cigarettes. Some might say this was typical of their generation. As a young child, the evening martinis seemed to lighten the mood. I didn’t understand the significance of drinking till intoxicated nearly every evening. Our home was thick with cigarette smoke most of the time. As I grew older and wanted more independence, I became aware that the alcohol seemed to make my mom angrier and more emotional. What I experienced as tension as a child began to feel more threatening as I entered adolescence.

I know it isn’t uncommon for teens to yell back at their parents, and perhaps some of what happened between my mom and me was not unusual for adolescents of that time. What makes my story more complicated, however, was not only the misunderstandings between us, but my parents’ lack of understanding about how race and identity shaped my desperate need to fit in with my peers.

Staying out late, dating, and many other things my friends were beginning to experience were forbidden in our home. I watched my friends gain the freedom I desperately wanted. So I yelled back. It was the only way I knew how to protect myself. There were no conversations, no teaching, no attempts to help me understand or show support. Just yelling.

On one occasion, my mom became so angry that she pushed me back onto my bed and began tearing my shirt off, leaving a hole in the fabric. Another time, she ripped the telephone in my bedroom out of the wall jack while I was talking to a friend. These incidents, and many others, created such fear in me that I shrank, and I hated my mom in those moments. There was no one to confide in, not that I would have known how to ask for help or how to express myself at the time. I was unable to make sense of what was happening in our home, and there was nowhere to take the confusion, anger, and fear except music. Music is where I escaped

When I went to college, I grew more and more distant from my parents. I lived at home my first year, then moved on campus. I loved having the physical distance. It provided a respite, a barrier between me and my mom, and a place where I finally felt safe.

I loved college. Perhaps, not surprisingly, I began experiencing everything in excess, indulging in the freedoms that come along with being away at college. Excessive drinking, partying, staying out late, doing pretty much whatever the hell I wanted, alongside hours of practicing the piano. Some of my favorite moments were the quiet ones, practicing late into the night, alone in the music building, holed up in a tiny practice room. It was just me and the piano. There was something deeply magical about those hours.

The flip side was that I hated performing. The expectations of perfection that came with being a piano performance major was crushing. To this day, anything that makes me feel as though I have to perform or prove myself can trigger intense anxiety. I’m better now at moving through it without beating myself up when I fail to meet my own expectations. But I recognize that old feeling. Somewhere along the way, performance became intertwined with the fear of not being good enough.

In college, I began planning my escape. After graduation, I moved back in with my parents for about a year while I taught paino lessons to kids. I kept my distance from my mom as much as I could. Eventually, I hatched a plan to get out of Louisiana. By then, my grandmother had moved into our home. Though she and my mom didn’t always see eye to eye, I think it must have been a comfort to my mom to have her there. One morning, I packed my car with whatever belongings would fit and drove away.

I remember seeing both of my parents standing in the driveway, waving goodbye. My mom’s face held a sadness and worry that I had rarely seen before. I was leaving the home I had desperately wanted to escape, yet seeing her standing there caused something in me to break a little. I loved her. I resented her. I was relieved to be leaving, yet I was sad to leave her. This was the beginning of an inner conflict I would carry for many years: loving and despising my mom at the same time.

I got married at 26. That is a completely different story for another day. And, I gave birth to my daughter on October 10, 1997. Her birth marked the beginning of a profound new chapter in my life. She was the first human with whom I experienced what felt like true intimacy. Becoming a mother changed the way I saw my own mother. Something softened. For the first time, I could glimpse at her pain and suffering in a way I hadn’t been able to before. My mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease not long after. And, very gradually she declined, until one day I returned for a visit, and she no longer recognized me.

I have wrestled with grief and guilt, struggling to reconcile both the resentment I held for my mom with deep sadness, knowing we will never be able to express apologies or forgiveness to one another. I do not hold anger or hatred towards her anymore. What remains is sorrow.

I know she did and said terrible things. For years, I refused to visit my parents. But time has a way of softening us. I don’t know much about my mom’s history or what she endured before I knew her, but I imagine there were wounds and pain none of us understood. I wish I had known more. I wish I could have understood her suffering while she was still here. And I hate that she suffered from Alzheimer’s disease. It was tragic to watch her deteriorate physically and cognitively as the years passed.

To this day, i feel I never really knew my mom. I know she loved me, and I feel gratitude that she did; perhaps she was doing the best she could with what she had. That doesn’t erase my own pain and suffering. It simply calls me to continue healing the wounds that are still tender and that sometimes affect me in ways I don’t even recognize. In some ways, I believe this pain led me to my profession. It has helped me understand the complexity of trauma, the ways our early experiences shape us, and the importance of creating the safety and compassion that I sometimes needed as a child. Perhaps this is one way I have made meaning from what I experienced.

My birthday is only nine days after my mom’s. Every year, those two dates sit close together on the calendar, a reminder of the complicated bond we had and the ways I will always be connected to her.

So, happy birthday, Mom.

May you be at peace, and may you be somewhere kinder and gentler now.

Photo by Christopher Sardegna on Unsplash