One word. It's just a word: "mother," but it's never a neutral word -- it's always imbued with emotional meaning. Everyone has a mother of some kind: biological, foster, adoptive, loving or reluctant. One of the things that all humans, being mammals, can identify with is some kind of relationship with a "mother." Each of us has a story, or many, about her, each of us is somewhere on a path of dealing with the person we know as mother, and her relationship to us.
As Mother's Day approaches, pink flowery cards spring up like gardens in every store, and we're inundated with sales for perfume, household items, girly dresses, stuffed animals, and flower deliveries. The commercials say things like, "Who is the person who always listened to you, the one you could always count on -- Mom! Celebrate her today."
This single statement can send all manner of people streaming into therapy -- at least one session -- to cope with the memories, feelings, and demands that are triggered. Some lucky people DO feel that their mother is their best friend, and carry no doubts about her loyalty, her trustworthiness, and her deep and abiding love. Sons may model their love interests after their mother, or not. Daughters want to be, or not be, like their mothers, measuring their worth against that of their mother's winning traits or what they think are her shortcomings. We define and redefine "mother" and its meaning to us in our lives, as we do the rest of our familial relationships.
The same statement about Mother's Day that makes some people feel loving and celebratory can make others feel sad, angry, and confused. I was one of those in the second group. My stomach would begin to ache as Mother's Day approached, and despite my intentions to ignore the day or at least find a neutral card, I'd remember things I didn't want to think about: my mother leaving on the train after her once a year visit to me and my grandmother, her mother. Another part of me wanted her to leave, because the visits were so fraught with conflict between her and her mother. My mother and I shared a strange parallel history: her mother left her when she was about six years old, and my mother left me when I was four. Her mother was now taking care of me -- so my heart would soften toward my mother as I thought of her being motherless. I knew how that felt.
So as an adult, after my mother made it clear that she wanted no one to know I was her daughter -- my memoir Don't Call Me Mother: A Daughter's Journey from Abandonment to Forgiveness is the story of the mothers in my family -- I was left with two feelings: to change her mind and PROVE that I was worthy for my mother to love and claim me -- thus the need to find the "right" card. Or perhaps that year I'd feel like expressing my anger at her abandonments refusing to send her a card. Which was right? Was it being a small-minded person to refuse to send my own mother a card? After all, she had birthed me, she was indeed my mother, even if she felt conflicted about it. I knew that in every day life, her mother was my "mother" in the sense of she was the one who took me to the doctor, tucked me in, got me to do my homework, bought my clothes, and encouraged my development. So I had two mothers, really. When my grandmother was alive, and we were speaking -- things were complicated between us as well -- I would send her a Mother's Day card, as I did an aunt who mothered me, and a friend who had taken the role of mother for many years. So the motherless me adopted several mothers.
I've been a therapist for over thirty-five years, and during this time I've encountered many emotional "orphans." Some people feel motherless because they grow up with very distant mothers, mothers who are distracted or sick, mothers who have too many children, or who start off well with mothering but then become overwhelmed or have other interests, or have a stressful marriage, or no marriage at all. There are so many stories about mothers -- and each mother has her own story as well about who her model of mothering was and the challenges she faced as a person.
It seems to me the best way we can manage the complexities about "mother" is not to remain in judgment of our mothers, no matter how hard that is. If we can find a way to stand in her shoes, and to learn who she was before she was a mother, we may find ourselves seeing her as a whole person, someone who had her own life, her own struggles and problems to solve.
It doesn't work in the deep mining of memories and the past to pass over the true feelings we may have, even if they are dark. I had to learn this over and over again. First, we may need to speak out or write out the raw truth of how we feel -- now and in the past, the good and the bad. We may need to scream or cry or write poetry, stomp around or simply sit still with a range of insights and feelings we discover on our journey to healing.
There may come a time when we can look into the face of the girl or young woman "mother" was long before she knew of us, when she was simply herself. You may visit her, or simply look at a photograph -- and pause to get to know her, thinking of the possibilities and hopes she might have had for her life, how she wanted her life to turn out. You may have this information, or you might need to imagine it based on what you know.
As a memoirist, I encourage people to write the stories that beckon, the untold stories, the secret stories. And yes, you can write a story through your mother's eyes, become her, and see her world. Think of the era she grew up in, the clothes she wore, the political and historical demands on her life and write from her point of view. Look at the photographs and write TO her, share what you think and understand now. And write about that word, "mother." See how it speaks to you.
I hope you have a meaningful Mother's Day, however you do or don't celebrate it. If you'd like to learn more about writing your memoir, please join the Free Memoir Telesummit Friday, May 9. When you sign up you receive a free audio of the whole day. To learn more please visit the National Association of Memoir Writers.