Member-only story
This Is Us
Mommy Issues: Unlearning Inherited Pain
I come from a long line of mothers abusing daughters
When I call my mother on Mother’s Day, we make mild conversation for 30 minutes. She asks about my job. I ask about the ducks. She complains about my father. We withdraw from the conversation as soon as good manners allow. This is, believe it or not, the healthiest our relationship has ever been. This is a victory, and it was hard-won.
My mother refused to give up her maiden name when she married. I have only ever known her as a conservative Irish Catholic woman, but by all accounts, she was a real wild card in her youth. I’ve seen the pictures of her bleached hair with red tips molded into liberty spikes all over her head. I’ve seen pictures of her in a leather jacket outside a theater, preparing for a live showing of Rocky Horror Picture Show. I’ve seen her tattoos, faded and aging alongside the rest of her. But this cool punk-rock mother has always been a stranger to me.
It was my father who filled my arms with books by Robert Frost and Walt Whitman the moment I could read. But my mother did like Sylvia Plath. The first thing she ever told me about Plath was that she stuck her head in an oven. She said this as only a Catholic could, with a particular disdain rationed toward speaking about…
