Lifestyle
artificial insemination syringe
I don’t have love for my mother.
I can almost hear the voices of those who might say, “You must love her just a little bit, right?” But the truth is, no, I don’t love her. And I don’t feel guilty about that because she didn’t love me first.
It was only when I encountered another estranged child who remarked, “They didn’t love me first,” that I truly understood the validity of my feelings. He was right. Our parents initiated this cycle. As children, we poured our love into them, hoping for a reciprocation that rarely came. Many people, even into adulthood, keep striving for their parents’ affection. It’s perfectly acceptable to reach a point where you can no longer endure the emotional strain and recognize that you never truly loved your parent either. How could you? They never gave you the opportunity. What often happens is that we fall in love with the concept of our parent—their potential for goodness, even if that potential is merely a fantasy.
I often feel judged for my lack of affection towards my mother. I understand this perspective; many people come from healthy familial backgrounds and have been taught the norms of loving relationships. They attempt to empathize with my situation, but they can’t truly comprehend what it’s like to feel such a void in maternal love.
My mother isn’t like the typical moms. In reality, she wasn’t a mother at all. I found myself in the role of caregiver. I took care of her, shielded her, and managed her emotions. I made excuses for her behavior. I loved her, but it wasn’t the love that characterizes a healthy mother-daughter bond. Instead, my love was intertwined with anxiety, desperation, obligation, and an ongoing sense of inadequacy. I believed that if I devoted myself entirely and loved her fiercely, perhaps she would love me back, not just when it suited her.
For twenty-four years, I extended my love to her. It was a painful journey that took a toll on my mental well-being. I forgave her time and again, adjusted who I was to win her approval, and took responsibility for situations I knew she wouldn’t. I treated her as a child, allowing her to evade accountability for her actions. I became an overprotective figure, shielding her from everything, including the repercussions of her own behavior.
Maybe part of the blame for her awful behavior lies with me. Although my intentions were pure, I inadvertently helped create a monster. But I was a child, and I acted out of the necessity she imposed on me. I thought my actions would earn her love; I thought it would make me worthy.
When I express that I don’t love my mother, people fail to grasp the intensity of the love I once had for her. They don’t see that my decision to stop loving her has liberated me. They rarely pause to ponder the reasons behind my feelings. Society emphasizes the importance of “honoring thy mother and father,” but how can I honor someone who is devoid of honor?
The most challenging aspect is my mother’s utter lack of remorse. Reflecting on my childhood, I can’t recall a single instance where she expressed regret. She showed no remorse for placing me and my sisters in harmful situations that led to our sexual abuse. She never acknowledged the psychological toll it took on us, nor was she sorry when our abuser was imprisoned, and we began to grapple with mental health issues. She never apologized for her volatile temper or the cruel words that eroded our self-esteem. Nor did she express remorse when I finally gathered the courage to confront her about these issues.
While most mothers experience “mom guilt,” my mother appeared incapable of such a feeling. It was never her fault; it was always mine. For instance, one time, she erupted in anger over nothing, a behavior typical of her refusal to manage her emotions. If she felt irritated, she would yell; if she felt down, she would cry uncontrollably, irrespective of how inappropriate it was for those around her.
During one of her rages, she hurled insults at me that targeted my insecurities. I found myself outside the room, succumbing to a panic attack. When she realized she had crossed a line, rather than apologizing, she blamed me for panicking. “I can’t see through walls,” she snapped, implying that she couldn’t see my distress, though she could hear me gasping for air. Her indifference was chilling.
Sometimes, it wasn’t just her actions that hurt, but rather her inaction. Whenever I faced bullying at school, she would find ways to suggest it was my fault, scrutinizing my behavior and appearance. Her comments like, “You shouldn’t have said that” or “You sounded pathetic,” only deepened my wounds.
This lack of support, affection, and validation made me feel profoundly unloved. She was never on my side, and it felt as though she understood the bullies’ motivations. As a child, this made no sense to me. Now, as an adult, I comprehend it clearly: she was my first bully, and she empathized with those who sought to tear me down.
She never defended me from bullies, nor did she protect me from my father’s harshness or favoritism towards my sister. She failed to shield me from sexual abuse. Yet, I always stood by her side. Though I didn’t recognize it at the time, I was a good daughter. I treated her with kindness and loyalty, constantly forgiving her and loving her against all odds.
Eventually, I reached a breaking point in adulthood and had to distance myself from her. It wasn’t a choice I desired; it felt like a necessity. People often misunderstand estrangement. It doesn’t feel like a decision; it feels like a last resort.
I know I wouldn’t have survived if I had remained in that environment, both emotionally and in terms of my physical well-being. My mother’s lack of love pushed me toward thoughts of suicide on multiple occasions. I would feel inadequate and wonder why I should continue living in such unbearable pain when I had already tried everything to gain her approval.
Choosing not to love her has restored my agency. It has allowed me to truly embrace life. I no longer seek her validation. I’ve accepted that she never loved me, and while the journey of releasing my love for her has been excruciating at times, it’s the most liberating choice I’ve ever made.
I don’t withhold love from my mother because I’m a bad person. I don’t love her because I’m brave. I don’t love her because I’m working hard to heal. I don’t love her because I have more worthy individuals in my life to cherish. I have my sisters, my partner, and my daughter. Why squander love on someone who brings me despair when I could direct it towards those who give my life meaning?
I don’t love my mother because I value myself too much to let her cause me pain again.