“My mother committed suicide when I was 2½ years old.” I used to wear that sentence on my sleeve so to speak, using it whenever I needed a little sympathy, a passage through a tough time, or even just recognition of any kind. Sometimes I even found myself reciting it to shock someone else. Always as a manipulative and calculating way to get what I wanted.
Growing up in a strict religion I was left with no hope of ever meeting my mother when I finally died and went to Heaven (as this particular religion implied – to only later yank out of my grasp). Now this may create a kind of tongue in cheek attitude with some people who may not believe in God. If any of these type of people are reading this, I hope they at least read on with an open mind.
I was raised to believe in God and believe in eternal life after death. I also discovered at an early adult age that I am a “glass is half full” person. Being brought up in this strict religion, I was taught that God is a judging God. The religion left out a lot of other information from the Bible that went hand in hand with God being judgmental. Information that would have helped me cope with the way my mother died. Instead, they left me hanging right there with my mother. I had nothing to believe in that would have helped me to forgive my mother and move on with my life. I lived in the same condemning limbo they taught me my mother was in.
I am the second to youngest in a family of nine. My mother was my father’s second and last wife. Out of the nine, my mother had six. My youngest sister was only 8 months old. The 3rd to the youngest was one of my brothers who was 6. I mention this to lead up to some things my younger sister and I experienced that our older brothers and sisters did not.
Because my sister and I were so young (not of school age), we had a live in housekeeper. I have no recollections of this time period at all. She left somewhere in my 4th year. This is the time period where my memory seems to begin. My younger sister and I were placed with a family on a farm in the same town we lived in. We would stay there during the week and come home on the weekends.
This is the earliest I can remember feeling totally abandoned and rejected. The family we stayed with treated my sister and I with indifference until the mood for discipline struck them. The discipline was often severe and in today’s terms considered abusive, both physically and mentally. Most of the times, we were beaten for things we did not do. I could safely say that my sister and I were considered nothing more than a weekly obligation that brought the end of the week paycheck.
This lasted until I was almost 6 years old and able to begin school. This time period was also the beginning foundation for 35 years of inner rage and a constant search to be accepted, loved, wanted…by anyone.
When I was 15, I was very close to choosing the same road my mother did. How very sad to be at such an early age and find you really believe there is nothing left to live for. A friend of mine must have seen this in me. She took the time to share with me her faith and her perception of God. She took that very same Bible I was taught from and began to show me all the places that God spoke of His love, His unconditional love, and His readiness to forgive any sin. Yes, even murder. And isn’t it really a murder when one takes their own life?
This enlightenment brought on some newfound hope. Did I stay with this? Sadly, no, but the faith and belief in God stayed with me throughout the rest of my teens and all of my 20’s. Mid 30’s found me at the lowest ebb my life was ever at. Lower than even my teens. Again, I found myself wanting to choose the same path as my mother.
As I look back now, all I can see growing up is a frenzied chaotic time of constant running. Running to anything that remotely looked like being loved. Running from things like fear of rejection or being discovered as a phony. Another aspect of being the daughter of a suicide mother at such an early age, is everything I learned – and I mean everything – was learned through observation and mimicry. Looking back, I am amazed at all of the things I picked up through observation, that people I met along the way thought I was a born natural at. One example is being a mother. I always felt I was playing a role. Copying what I saw others do, or at least trying to. Most of my sons growing years I had no clue what I was doing. It wasn’t until his 14th year (my 36th) that I discovered I wasn’t a bad mom. By then though, I had already instilled in him all my baggage of insecurities.
Probably more out of desperation then actual faith, I cried out to God for help. From the age of 35 to this present time, I can look back in total amazement of where my path led me. I moved south with my son. I had a brother who lived there. In the course of the following eight years, I got involved with a church that happened to be a very good teaching church. I learned a lot about God’s Word and most importantly how to apply it to my life. God became very real to me. I got to know Him like He was someone who sat at my side every day. This path also led to a Codependency class, a “How to Raise Your Self-Esteem” class, and numerous other self help tools.
This was where I learned how to forgive and let go. This was where my rage let go and my abandonment and rejection issues were handled. This was where I learned to apply what I learned to not only the other areas of my life, but also in what and whom came across my path. This was where the distance I felt towards and from my siblings ended. This was where my true healing began.
Do I still blame my mother for all of my insecurities and pitfalls? No. I was finally able to let go of all my unforgiving attitudes toward her. Now when I state certain feelings or insecurities I had as a direct cause of her death, they are just that…statements. I feel very fortunate, blessed if you will allow, that I learned to forgive someone did not mean you were saying that what he or she did was alright, just that you recognized they too were human and not perfect. Learning that, and bringing it deep inside, ended up shoving out all the rage and insecurity inside. I can’t begin to describe how freeing that one seemingly small act was. Forgiving also gave me the opportunity to cut out all the excuses. Excuses like, “she was sick” and “she didn’t mean to hurt me.” No, what my mother did was wrong, at least in my eyes. But also in my eyes is that what she had done was a mistake. God knows I’ve made enough of those in my life. Maybe because I have experienced firsthand the lifelong effect suicide has on those left behind is why my mistakes, while some being pretty severe were never permanent like hers.
Once that forgiveness was deep inside, I was able to finally move on and begin to find out just who the heck I was. I was given the chance to truly grieve the loss of a mother I never got a chance to know.
The memories are still there of all the things I missed out on, of all the struggles I went through. But the pain is gone. Memories like these next couple may have seemed trivial or sad to some but were debilitating for me. This first one seemed so trivial, but it made me realize just how insecure I was.
I was 25 years old doing laundry in a laundromat with my 2½ year old son playing close by. I was stuffing laundry in the washing machines with no order to them at all. I happened to look up and caught a couple of women kind of staring at me. Here I was a young woman and mother to boot, why wasn’t I separating my clothes? Where were all the different cleaning helpers like stain removers? Until that moment I had no clue I was lacking in even that area!
The other memory was my inner fear I felt all throughout my pregnancy. Sure I knew all about how to feed, diaper, and bathe a child. but there was no “mom” coming home to take over after a few hours. I tried to relate this to my husband (ex now), but it wasn’t until my son was 3 weeks old and crying that I believe he finally understood my fears. I had done everything I knew to do. The usual: changed his diaper, tried to feed him, juggling him in one arm as I tried to prepare dinner with the other. My husband asked what was wrong with him. When my worried response was, “I don’t know.” His rather condescending reply brought everything to a screaming halt. He said “What do you mean you don’t know? You are his mother…mothers are supposed to know.” My answer basically told just how deep my fear and insecurities ran. “Mother? What does that mean? M.O.T.H.E.R. it’s just a word, but I don’t know what it means!”
When I was finally able to let go of the anger and unforgiveness, I found I could recognize similar fears in younger women who were becoming new moms. It didn’t matter what put those fears there, dysfunction is dysfunction no matter if it was from the early death of a parent, the product of abusive treatment, or…you fill in the blank. When recognition of those fears would happen, I found that now I would feel compassion for those women instead of impatience. A kindred spirit, so to speak, and I would find myself falling naturally into what I have come to term my “mom mode.”
The religion I was brought up in took away any hope of seeing my mother by omitting that God is a loving and forgiving God. I do not know what my mother’s last thoughts were. Maybe at the moment before her final breath she realized how permanent this choice really was and cried out for forgiveness. And maybe she didn’t. Since I believe in God, I also believe He created us with our own free will. If my mother chose to do this of her own free will, then I have to respect her decision. That doesn’t mean I have to like it. With everything else I have learned, I also learned that there are behaviors and actions in most humans that are brought on by conditionings of life. Some of those conditions are from living a dysfunctional life. I do know my mother was brought up in a very dysfunctional home. Both of her parents were alcoholics. I do know that being the oldest daughter she ended up being the caretaker to not only her parents but to her younger siblings as well. Part of me can’t help but believe that God forgave her anyway. It is an answer I will just have to wait for until I meet God face to face. The important thing? I can live with that and move forward now feeling that all my paths of life’s journey are adventurous, met head-on with anticipation and not fear.
Do I push what I’ve learned down other peoples throats? No. Do I deny and apologize for believing in God and the faith in which I live under? Again the answer is no. It is what not only worked for me, but truly saved me from the path of self destruction that I could not seem to get off of on my own. Do I still make mistakes? Most definitely, but through these mistakes God has shown me not only His unconditional love, but also His unconditional forgiveness. I have experienced firsthand what it is like to live under His awesome and almighty grace. Do I strive to better myself? Simply put, yes. What God has given me through love, forgiveness and grace, are truly gifts, for I have done nothing to deserve them. How could a person not want to give something back?
To summarize or at least try to, I would have to say that growing up without my mother created a very rough and rocky road. But it was also that very same road that helped to shape and mold me into a person who can cope with, adjust, even adapt to just about anything that comes across my path. My belief and faith in God and now my newfound understanding of just how loving He is, helps me to realize that He has taken all of my struggles, all of my mistakes and turned every one of them into experiences I can use in current situations. And my journey these days? Sure there are still times that can be rough and rocky. But now I know that I do not travel them alone. I find myself looking ahead in excited anticipation of reaching the next level plateau. The one I know is for certain, waiting at the top of that rough and rocky path. The one mainstay in my life is now making sure I recognize each of those paths…. I only take the ones leading up.