Mother’s Day is this weekend and it’s going to hurt like a bitch. I want to send this one out to all the daughters whose mothers left them with scars they will never find answers for. When you have complex PTSD and your mother was part of your trauma, Mother’s Day can be tricky anyway. It only gets more complicated when your mother is dead and all the memories and questions become ghosts to haunt you.

For years, I buried myself in my work, tried to make it like any other day, felt relieved when it was over. Then I became a teacher. LOTS of down time I’m still not used to. No more working weekends. Mother’s Day suddenly free. And then it was like all those years worth of Mother’s Days ignored suddenly came back to get even…!

After a conversation with a bestie, I might be closer to at least figuring out why Mother’s Day bothers me so much.

Growing up, it seemed we had such a complicated relationship. She would sometimes tell me I was her pride and joy and she was proud of me, and then other times reject me – act like she didn’t want to see me, tell me something mean, leave me with random acquaintances and family members for months (okay, that was only once but it was an extended period of time at a very young age and it made a lasting impression!) 

I think the most painful memory is trying SO hard to make her happy through the years and failing over and over again. Each Mother’s Day I would make things, sing her songs, take her places… But there was always some reason the experience was a letdown. Food wasn’t very good. She just didn’t feel like eating. She didn’t really like the color of the gift…etc. the only things that were mildly successful were things I created, but even with those she’d smile and thank me, put them in her Bible and then go back to sleep.

You see, all my life I looked for the magic “switch” to fix her.

And when I couldn’t find it, I just worked harder. Next year. Next year I’ll find it for sure. I decided these holidays that centered around her were my best shot.

As she aged, I grew more frantic. The gifts got bigger, more elaborate. The cards were half as tall as her, covered in perfumed rose stickers with long flowery messages. 

I worked an entire year to compose a whole book of poems just for her. She seemed happy when I gave it to her, but she never said much. “Do you like it?” I asked.  “Of course I like it,” she replied, but she never commented on favorite poems and we never had a conversation about it as I’d hoped.
I came up with a game – a treasure hunt of sorts where she had to walk through the house and find all the presents. She seemed to like that, and at least it got her out of bed. 

Another time, a friend of hers mentioned her son could make CDs (which was not yet a widely available thing). I gave her a list of Mama’s favorite songs. We presented the CD along with another enormous card at a special outing.

Another reason Mother’s Day hurt so much is probably selfish. 

I wanted a “normal” mom I never got – a mom that smelled good, whose hair actually fell when she took it down instead of clinging together in matted clumps, whose teeth did not look like clabbered milk, who took me to play softball, or to cheer clinic, or dance practice, or frickin’ Chuck-E-Cheese Pizza – anything really. 

I wanted a mom I could relate to on a daily basis without having to worry that she was going to flip out and start yelling. I wanted to talk with her about my problems, doubts and fears without her randomly a) helping and comforting me OR b) sending me off to pray for my sins that caused the feelings I was having. 

Also, I knew she suffered.

She cried a lot, felt persecuted by people. She spent a lot of time reading the Psalms of David where he talks about fearing his enemies. She felt it was her responsibility to “save my dad’s soul.” But I did not fail to notice the peace we experienced when she would be gone.

I think the “fixing things” idea came from the movies I watched with child protagonists. 

They always showed the kids saving the day, especially with regard to parent relationships and family bonds. The kid would finally say one magical thing that would bring everyone together and end all the problems. From the moment my mother was dead, I lost that chance.

I try to leave all the why’s in my Ask Jesus Box, but like a nightmare version of el Dia de los Muertos, all of the ghosts come flooding back in, and nothing can stop them. My only option is to crumple on the floor or the ground wherever I happen to end up, cover my head, and wait for the bad dream to be over – for one more year, anyway.

Sending you love & good vibes this weekend. If this post resonated with you, please share below.