This is Part 2 of a series. Read Part 1 here.
I am the only child of an only child who now lives in an assisted living facility thousands of miles away. I unofficially diagnosed Mom with obsessive personality disorder after years of struggling to maintain some type of relationship with her. My kind and patient stepfather provided a buffer for us, but after his passing, our interactions became more challenging.
While growing up, I yearned for my mom’s attention and approval. Her need for perfection made it impossible to live up to her ideals. When she discovered I could excel academically, she became hyper-focused on my grades. When I received my only A- in volleyball, she went to my small, private school’s administration, demanding the grade be changed to an A. She reasoned that since I could not earn an A+, an A- was unfair, and they reluctantly changed my grade. Mom is relentless and refuses to take “no” for an answer, wearing you down until you concede. She would have been a killer lawyer.
My becoming a standout was very important to my mom, who paid positive attention to me only when I achieved. The attention, however, was excessive and cringeworthy. I was horrified when she informed me that she had signed me up for the Miss United Teenager pageant without my permission. I won first runner-up, Miss Congeniality, and the talent show. The three huge trophies came up to my waist. “I guess you’ll always be second best,” she sighed disappointedly.
It’s a lifetime process learning how to cope with a parent whose rules and expectations are so suffocating that there’s no room for maintaining a separate identity. How did I cope? At 17, I moved from Arizona to college in Michigan. I pursued psychology to make sense of this relationship and figure out how to move forward, as well as help others. I developed sarcasm and humor (my fifth love language) to make light of almost any situation. I also spent years trying to overcompensate to prove my worthiness because, let’s face it, when dealing with an OCD personality, you feel like you are never enough and can never do anything right. I learned to lie by omission, which is common in unsafe relationships. I emotionally disconnected to survive, working hard not to take things personally. And I was fortunate to find an incredible support system of friends and family who validated my feelings and appreciated my sense of humor.
So now, when dealing with Mom’s serious health and safety issues, I try to stay focused on the present and avoid dragging in past emotional baggage. But it’s frustrating when current problems trigger the same old feelings of helplessness and frustration. My mom lived near a highly trafficked road, and she had already caused a serious accident. Before I took her car keys away, I kept reminding her to wear her seat belt, but she stubbornly refused. “One of my breasts may get ripped off,” she justifies. Have you seen 83-year-old breasts? This triggers my anger and sarcasm. “You’re right, Mom; it’s better to have your breasts ripped off as you fly through the windshield. Oh, and good news! Your new medical alert pendant will give the emergency vehicle the exact location of your dead body by the side of the road.” (Don’t judge people.)
I remember a pivotal moment in my life. While I was a sophomore at college, my mom called. She wanted to know if I received my first “care” package, which included snacks, money, and a T-shirt with a picture of her face on the front. “Yes, I received it, thank you,” I said, dumbfounded, holding up the T-shirt. (This T-shirt has been regifted more than any other item in history.) The conversation quickly devolved into long-distance micromanaging, and I began sobbing an all-out ugly cry, hiccupping, and snot-running. As I wiped my tears, I heard a loud and clear thought that stopped me short. “You don’t have to please her anymore.” Wait what?? “You don’t have to please her anymore.” This was a turning point for me. Though the yearning for motherly acceptance still appears, it does so far less frequently.
At 58, I understand that I am grieving over a mother-daughter relationship I never had. Once I moved to South Dakota and started my own family, my parents would come to visit. We were invited to a holiday at their home only once. When my parents bought a spacious condo in Mexico, the second bedroom was converted into a library, leaving my family without a place to stay. I now understand that with Mom’s OCD personality disorder, the mess and stress of having guests would have been intolerable. Yet, the sting and hurt of not wanting her grandchildren to stay at their grandmother’s home was poignant.
“Francine, what happened to your eyebrows? They used to be so nice and long,” she emails me. “Francine, why do you go by the name Franne? Don’t you think Dr. Francine Sippel sounds much more professional?’ (Hell no, I think to myself. See, I have some restraint.) And while caring for her in her home…“Francine, let me show you how I put detergent in my washing machine. Put a blanket down under your luggage to keep the floor clean. Don’t use this Kleenex box in your bathroom. The blue box matches the colors in the kitchen. Don’t use the left side of the kitchen sink.” Is this stirring any feelings in you? If not, you are an AI bot. Though Mom barely eats or drinks and will be alone for Thanksgiving, I can’t wait to board a plane and fly home. I “should” be spending the holiday with my mom, and I feel guilty that I don’t want to. The mental whiplash of competing thoughts and emotions is utterly exhausting.
Are there any benefits to growing up with my mom? Of course. My mom valued education and told me not to marry a doctor, but to become one myself. (When I switched from pursuing my M.D. to an Ed.D., she stopped paying for my education, but I digress.) She modeled generosity, giving to others in need. I am generous and have taught my children to give. She also worked tirelessly as vice president in her postal union, fighting to help others whose rights were infringed upon. The role of being a helper/advocate was not lost on me. As a psychologist and researcher, I have spent my entire career helping others. For my high school graduation gift, she sent me on a nine-and-a-half-week European study abroad program affiliated with my future college, which fostered a lifelong love of travel. What my mom taught me to do, and more importantly, what she taught me not to do, has provided me with one of my most influential life-shaping lessons. I would never have become the mother I am without having Mom’s example.
