My Borderline Mother

 My mother: the borderline mother. 

I have a hard time remembering a lot of my childhood specifics, but of what I do remember is more of a feeling. My mother was different. Different from other mothers in so many ways. I could never pin point exactly what it was, but I do remember the first time I noticed. We were on a school field trip when I was 9 or 10, and she was there amongst many other children’s mothers. She dressed differently than the other moms, and acted differently too. I remember bursting out crying when we got home after this school field trip, and through bitter tears asking her why she couldn’t just BE like the other moms?

I don’t remember moments with my mom where she would play with me. I remember staying in my room at 10 in my bed. Was I modeling her behavior of staying in bed most of the day? Or was I depressed myself?

I was her golden child, up until my teen years. She would brag about my brother and I to her friends, many times in front of us. We were SO smart. “My daughter knew her alphabet by 17 months old” she would proudly proclaim, right in front of me as I rolled my eyes. I’d heard this story a thousand times. But secretly I knew that this was WHY she loved me. Because I was smart, and would love hearing how smart I was. I got straight A’s. School was easy for me. I knew I was loved if I was smart, worked hard and got straight A’s.

In my teen years I rebelled. I decided I wanted to have more of a social life, and that my friends and boys were more important than school - as many young girls do. 

Then we moved out abruptly when I was almost 16. An incident with my stepfather who was abusive in every sense of the word was the catalyst. Specifically sexual abuse - covert but still abuse. He placed a camera into my room (among other places over the years) to watch me. He went to jail after a plea deal, but by then we were living with my grandparents part time. 

My mom spiraled when I moved out. She became obsessive in calling me, texting me. If I didn’t respond, she would lash out at me. She would use guilt to manipulate me. Telltale signs of someone with BPD. 

I wouldn’t know that the next decade would be full of these episodes. The more I separated from her, the more she spiraled. Major events in my life became all about her in one way or another. 

The end for me was when my daughter was born. She showed up unexpectedly at the hospital, called obsessively when I was in the hospital. Called me the worst of names. 

I finally cut her off when my daughter was 18 months after months of allowing her and my elderly grandmother to visit every Friday. It was always all about her. She never interacted with my daughter, she would just take pictures of her. 

Our interactions were always cyclical. Cycles of being in an ok place, talking for hours about nothing really, and then episodes where she would lash out for really no reason other than in her mind I was pulling away from her. 

I was almost 3 years no contact with her when she died. I grieved all over again for the mother I so desperately wanted/needed. I missed my mom. I still do.