The Mother/Son Cliche (Pt. 1)

Does the fact that something is a cliche automatically make it suspect? As I journey through life I find that most cliches exist because they embody a kernel of truth.

I do not think that my mother or anyone was the cause of my being gay, that is not the cliche to which I refer. I'm talking about the classic psychotherapy cliche 'Blame the Mother'. She is partially responsible for many of the events of my life that have been the leading causes of my depression. That 'blame' can be spread across many of the adult members of my family but, fair or not, I placed the greatest expectations on my mother and she has been unable to fulfill any of these basic needs. I know it is easy to target our parents as the cause of our life problems and in my case I have mountains of evidence to back up these claims. But that blame can only go so far. At some point in our lives we have to begin to take back the reigns and forge ahead. So why is this so very hard?

Unlike many, I was not subjected to physical abuse by any adult as a child. I grew up in a middle class family and, even when times were tough, we rarely wanted for anything truly important. Shelter, food, clothing, toys, all were provided and there are many happy memories of birthdays and Holidays but there was very little in the way of emotional or physical displays of affection. Unpleasantness was neither tolerated nor acknowledged. Nothing 'bad' ever happened. Those moments were quickly swept under the rug and never discussed. In fact, they quickly moved into the realm of 'Things That Never Happened'.

Neither of my parents should ever had had children to begin with. The maternal and paternal genes either simply don't exist in their DNA or they were crushed beneath their longing for a life without the responsibility of progeny. I believe, on some level, my sister and I were left among the 'Things That Never Happened' whenever possible. My father got off easy when they divorced, he didn't have us around all the time and was quick to cancel visits whenever possible. So the burden was placed on my mother who was often more interested in her dating life than her own children. She even had a date on my birthday one year and hurried us through dinner so she could get ready. I baked my own birthday cake that year. At least my sister and I learned to be independent!

I don't say these things to elicit sympathy. Being neglected isn't the worst thing that can happen to a child (maybe...) but rather to illustrate the following point. As an adult, after years of therapy, I understand that both of my parents are deficient in their capacity to be good, loving, nurturing parents. They could never be a Mommy or a Daddy because they lack the skills. They aren't interested in their children's lives because they are too wrapped up in themselves. I get that on an intellectual level. I'm struggling with why I can't seem to emotionally release them (especially my mother) from the expectation that they should be these people. That they should make every effort to maintain and grow their relationships with their children rather than let them drift (or even push) farther and farther away. And they should have been proud to be our parents. Out of all of the cousins of our generation, my sister and I are the only ones to have never gotten into any trouble of any kind. We were good students, excelled in extracurricular activities and were just all around good kids. You know, the black sheep...

As an adult, I tried on many occasions over the years to talk with my mother about things from my childhood, to get even a little sliver of my expectations met and have always failed. Of course, at first, I tried to get my mother to admit that she made some mistakes in raising us. That some things might have been handled better... that was a losing battle. She told me that I could ask her anything I wanted... but that she wouldn't remember anything. (!!!)

Eventually, I tried to at least get her to acknowledge that I was having trouble with things that happened in my childhood - not to admit that anything was her fault - but to understand that I was caused pain. She dismissed my feelings as ridiculous saying, "If that is the biggest problem in your life then you really are messed up." Just like Mother Theresa!

I had given up on any of this with my father years before and have rarely looked back. He has popped up from time to time but always disappeared just as quickly so I learned not to put my faith in him and to let go of any expectation. That has worked out pretty well, all things considered. So why can't I do the same with my mother?

Why do I insist she show some remorse, take some responsibility, acknowledge my pain when I KNOW she simply cannot. It is akin to being angry with someone who is color blind because they can't tell red from green. So my frustration is more with myself than with my mother because I can't let this go. This is going to be a tough one because it links directly to my issues of trust in other people. If my own parents don't care about me... why would anyone else?

I know this is a bit rambling all over the place and I do have specific examples of what I'm talking about but I guess I need to tackle those more directly. Right now I'm more focused on my inability than on those of my parents. These things run very deep...