Soundtracks and Overtures

One winter when my mother had already started getting noticeably forgetful but before I realized how her dementia was affecting some of her cognitive abilities, the two of us had an emotionally painful visit. At the time I saw the resulting turmoil as just another chorus of our dysfunctional soundtrack, the one penned by her narcissistic hand when I was young. My son who was in high school at the time and his girlfriend were with me. My mom was living alone in a large upscale condo in a seniors only community. She was so excited to see me, to see all of us but especially me. This was usually the case but often her delight petered out completely partway through the first day.

At one point I was making pasta for all of us. I carried a large pot filled with boiling hot water and pasta noodles over to the sink. My mother stood right next to me, her shoulder practically touching mine. I asked her to move. My voice gently urged her to step back so she wouldn’t get burnt. The expression on her face went from loving to angry disgust. She began to argue with me and refused to move. I continued to balance the pot over the sink not wanting to pour it into the waiting colander with her standing so close. She spoke to me as if I were attacking her. Finally completely exasperated I too raised my voice and spoke to her angrily shouting that she was being unreasonable. The force of my voice succeeded in pushing her away from me but it did not change her view. In her eyes, I was the one in the wrong.

Now, years later and further into her dementia, mostly all that is left within her is sweetness. She rarely preens demanding adoring attention from others. There are only rare moments when she puts others, such as the health aides at her facility, down in a classist way to elevate herself, to assure herself that she is above them. These days she is always excited to FaceTime with me. We live far from each other so this is how we connect now. She’s more appreciative. Softer. Kinder. She seems to have lost the need for others to prove that they’ll pick her first, that they’ll do whatever she asks or expects. She had always been more empress than princess. The smallest slight, real or imagined, was always seen as an ultimate betrayal. I now understand this was her reaction to her own childhood trauma. Her mother, the woman who abused me so brutally, the woman she allowed to abuse me, of course also abused her.

When I was growing up, my mother served up a cocktail of pleasing and policing. She pleased those who she saw as better — more financially or socially accomplished — to gain their approval, to be counted among their ranks. She policed anyone she had even a bit of power over to demand their undying fealty. She was quick to point out what she perceived to be their infractions. Now I know she loves me. I think I had an inkling that she did when I was young but what I did know for sure was that she cared far more about herself than about me, or anyone else for that matter. I didn’t understand that she was starved for love. I didn’t realize that she withheld love and showered judgment as a way to protect herself from being judged or unloved. I don’t like her choice. But it wasn’t mine to make. It was hers. She is the author of my childhood trauma. What she did. What she didn’t do. What she allowed others to do. What she pretended not to see.

I’ve always prided myself on using the negative example my mother provided to become a mother who loves her own child fully and deeply. I’m forever grateful that I could take something ugly and craft something beautiful from it. But here’s the thing. I spent a long time secretly wanting others to show me the same kind of loyalty my mother demanded. I used to give that loyalty freely to most people I met, even those who didn’t deserve it. I recreated my childhood trauma with partners, bosses, and friends who exhibited varying amounts of narcissistic behavior. I, just like my mother, kept wanting other people to prove to me I was lovable. I learned that childhood trauma leaves many scars, one of which is the belief that we aren’t lovable. My mother is still teaching me. She’s almost Buddha like at this point in her ability, thanks somewhat to her dementia, to simply take the world in and love it and to offer love in return. Once in a while her new wiring shorts out and shoots off a spark and she once again, just for a moment, sounds like her old off-with-their-heads empress self.

I’m much older now. I’ve learned to love deeply. I’ve also learned to have firm boundaries. I walk my boundaries regularly. Not to make sure they are still there but rather to see if they need any adjustments. In some weird and wonderful side door way my mother has taught me that I am eminently lovable, as are we all. She also taught me, perhaps more importantly, that how we treat ourselves and how we choose to treat others is how we write our life’s soundtrack and that that soundtrack determines which type of story we will inhabit.