My Mom Told Me I Am Cursed
Not all mother-daughter relationships are pretty in pink
The last time I spoke with my mom was in the earlier part of this year. Prior to then, there had been a two-year hiatus.
She was now pushing through her eighties and painfully frail. I had had a couple of drinks and dialed her number. It was New Year’s Day. My family history is thick with dysfunction and the negative dynamics that match, which is why I needed ‘Dutch courage.’
She was thrilled that I’d called, and the conversation was happy and warm as we chatted and caught up like long-lost friends; I was merry on wine and she, on Baileys. My mother sounded like the mom I had always wanted and ached for.
Nevertheless, I knew this was just a beautiful veneer that never ceases to take long to crack.
There were a couple more conversations like this over the next few weeks. She was keen and wanted more, but I was backing off, already cautious beyond belief.
I had opened up that I had to find somewhere to live because my landlady was selling. It was a positive push, being that the apartment had negative issues. Mom knew the history as I had been living there for thirteen years. And so she, like me, was more than happy that I was finally getting out of the place.
The problem is that we have an ongoing housing crisis in England. A vast number of people are unable to find properties to rent.
With zero success in my tenacious search for a new home, I acted fast, because landlords take tenants to court if they haven’t vacated by the allotted time. I had to become ruthless, giving away my furniture, and putting the rest of my belongings in a storage facility. With the fewest of my items, I nestled into my boyfriend’s apartment.
After my whirlwind move, my mom messaged, keen to know that I had found somewhere — as she felt in her spirit I had. She was astonished I was living with my boyfriend and warned me about us being unmarried. Taken aback, I felt shocked. I tackled it with a reply from my adult place, as per my therapist.
“It would be good to have boundaries if you want to carry on with some sort of relationship with me.”
I quickly scanned for a reply hoping by now she would validate my private life and choices. It didn’t cut it.
She replied: “If you disobey this prophecy, I am giving you, then this is your ‘bode — of — curse.’ I am sending this with great love to you knowing how the curse of your father will come down on you in violence — as it has done — and will do should you step out of His (God’s) way!”
That was the edited version.
Delete. Block. That was from my child’s place. Then I cried and felt cursed, literally. Is this for real?
Still — this wasn’t the first time. A few years ago, my boyfriend and I had shut down on each other. I was in a bad place, not knowing at the time I was triggered by the unpacked pain of my childhood. I didn’t initially reach out to my mother as she wasn’t built for that. Somehow, her unwanted unloving messages came through and rolled on from there.
I kept her emails because they were so far out and I needed to look back and see if I was missing something. To be honest I didn’t know what to do. The messages were full of rage and attack. Another curse too. This time it was because I refused to believe another prophesy she had given me. “God has cursed you and you will never marry anyone — for the rest of my life!”
My siblings told me to ignore her, that she was mentally unstable. Yet I felt anxious and devastated; what if the curses were true? The truth was that I had been controlled by her religiosity all my life. I didn’t have a loving father either to turn to for wisdom.
Looking back, my mother was a single parent, and controlled us at a military level. We had daily chores — my twin and I unwillingly carried out a deep clean of the house every Saturday morning. I have only recently managed to shake off that bleak feeling I felt every Saturday.
I was twelve, and attending to one of my chores, which this particular time was cleaning our wooden dining room table. I was scrubbing away being the good girl, when my mother, out of nowhere, grabbed hold of my hair and smashed my face down onto the table. I was stunned and ran upstairs and locked myself in the bathroom. I checked in the small kitsch Vogue mirror we had and watched my nose bleed.
This behavior was normal back in that era. I recently spoke to my older sister about that day, and she recalled witnessing this scene. My sister continued to speak to me as if none of it was a big deal. A kind of stop whining tone. Whatever it was, I didn’t feel validated for the abusive behavior.
In the past year, I have been shining a light on my mother’s actions in a non-judgmental way. This has helped disempower the intense shame it created in me. Family dynamics have the power to establish excuses that become entwined in how we view what is or isn’t acceptable behavior.
How much of it are we expected to accept from a parent? This has been a question I have been asking myself most of my life. I’ve managed to find an answer from a mental health stance, which is to have no contact. Nonetheless, my guilt lingers on.
I love my mother but I don’t care for her nature. My heart is broken and deeply sad for her own unhappy childhood and eccentricity. I wrestle with disloyalty in penning my perspective for the world to see, yet sharing a small part of my story may reach others who are seeking similar answers.
Thank you for reading
© Chantal Weiss 2023 All Rights Reserved
