Biting the Hand That Loves You

My Chinese mother states she loves her daughters unconditionally. My sister and I might say that her unconditional love is actually conditional. And regardless of the conditions, we've certainly had to pay for it.

"Trapped" by my American father, she moved to the States (as she shares the story), against her will. Unfortunately, he was an angry alcoholic who didn't understand the concept of fidelity. And my mother, who barely spoke English, made the decision to kill herself and her two little girls that first lonely winter in this country in the suburban quiet town where she knew nobody and my father was out doing god knows what. We were both asleep in our beds when my mother put her hands around my little sister's neck - she must have been just under two. My sister woke up and said "I love you Mommy." And it was in that moment that my mother has told us that she decided to fight for a life for us in this country. I feel pain for her. But I also feel pain for the two little girls that survived that night. Because as long as I can remember, my sister and I have heard that story over and over again.

And we vividly remember the vicious tirades of an unhappy woman that came out of no where when my mother couldn't handle the stress. I remember her screaming at the top of her lungs because she couldn't cope with the mess in our playroom. And the wooden bamboo back scratcher that left welts on our little thighs, so bad that I remember my father wincing one day when he came home from work and saw my mother's handiwork on my body.

My mother has played the role of martyr my whole life. I don't remember a day when she hasn't shared how she has suffered at our expense. And in our desire to thank her, please her, and win her love, my sister and I did everything possible to obtain her approval, to make her proud. I learned to be an overachiever, a people pleaser, excel in sales careers, and never say no even at my own expense. I adopted and perfected a "can OVER-do" philosophy on life, and ultimately, translated that philosophy into how to deal with all relationships, especially those with men.

I think our spirits were broken when my sister and I, in our early twenties, within almost two years of each other, moved to other states to give our spirits a chance to soar again. As much as we loved our mother, staying with her was becoming the equivalent of a slow death. My mother insists that we abandoned her. Perhaps that wasn't too far from the truth. But leaving gave us a chance to celebrate our own dreams, and our hopes for a happy future.

My mother has always resented this decision that we made. My financial independence and success commanded respect, and the geographical distance created a buffer, save for a few heated traditional Sunday phone calls. As long as I didn't need her, my mother would mostly stay on her best behavior.

Last October, for the first time in over ten years of my adult life, I needed her. I needed my mother during the beginning of my divorce, when it felt as if I were being hit over and over again by a mack truck. That little girl in me needed to be hugged by a strong woman who has survived a painful marriage and divorce and told that all would be well. And given the opportunity, she came through with flying colors. Ten years has obviously dulled my memory. I forgot how much you have to pay for her love. During this time, my mother started "calling the shots" and didn't prevent herself from reminding me how I've continued to pick losers in life.

With no choice but to attend a sales meeting during which I had custody of my children last week, I asked my parents if they could come for a visit and watch my little ones. I paid for the plane tickets, the groceries, the amenities, and coordinated transportation for the children to and from their preschool with a sitter. All I needed was for my mommy to love my children while I was away so that I could have peace of mind and heart. And considering that the divorce process destroyed my work focus and sales numbers this year, knowing that the loves of my life were in good hands while I had some serious career discussions out of town helped to ease the grief.

Until I came home and watched my mom scold my four year old for pooping in his pants. A talk that included encouragement to try to use the potty next time would have been my preference. Unfortunately, she delivered the vicious admonition that I remembered all too well growing up. I informed her to stop - this was my territory. And in front of my son, she lost her cool, stating that the children were out of control and they needed better discipline. She used phrases that I choose not share in this post.

Later that night, in bed, my son asked me "Why is Grandma mad at me? Why doesn't she love me?" I held his face in my hands and fought back the tears as I kissed his forehead. "My sweet boy," I cooed, "Grandma loves you so very much. And mommy loves you so very much. Mommy and Grandma were mad with each other and we shouldn't have yelled. I am so sorry. You did nothing wrong. You did NOTHING wrong."

I bit my tongue that night. And again the next morning when I drove the children to see their father for the weekend. I had endured for thirty-six years. But not my children. Never. The cycle stops here.

Receiving help from my mother means she was given power. And absolute power corrupts absolutely. I had handed it to her on a silver platter.

As soon as I walked in the door, she started griping about how much trouble my children were while I was away and how exhausted she was catering to them.

It was as if someone lit a match to a stick of dynamite. She didn't even know what hit her. I couldn't believe my voice could reach those octives. " You fucking pathetic woman!" I screamed. " How dare you? These are MY babies, YOUR grandchildren." My mother offered a matyr tirade of her own, but I'm not sure she could even hear herself over me.

"All they wanted was your love! " I yelled, "and that's all I asked from you." Spit was flying out of my mouth now and it felt like I was throwing left hooks into the air. " Instead, you chose to kick all of us when we needed you the most. You still kick me when I'm down! Fuck you and get the fuck out of my house!"

It felt as if a 900 pound gorilla was lifted from my back. And it was strangely euphoric. So my mother and I aren't on speaking terms now. We said nothing to each other the rest of the day and they left early the next morning.

I'm sure she's throwing some nasty Chinese curse in my direction right now.

Doesn't matter. Little by little, step by step...road to happiness. And for the record, I am taking NO prisoners.