I never dared disappoint her because there would be hell to pay for even the slightest slight. To keep the peace, I just did whatever she wanted me to do. It was easier to be obedient, so I didn’t get a beating, a berating, or even the silent treatment for days, maybe weeks.

I don’t remember when I stopped being me and instead became the me she wanted. Perhaps it was at birth, during childhood, or when I reached puberty. I don’t know when. I only remember being the me that she demanded me to be.

My mother used to brag about how much alike we looked and how we were one. My entire life, she told me that she chose to have me (without a husband or man). She told me that men were pretty useless and that we only needed each other.  When I behaved, I was her one consistent bright spot. I was a reflection of her. A mere reflection. When I disobeyed, I paid for it.

She needed to excel in everything I did. She took credit for everything I accomplished because there was no me without her, or at least that was what she programmed me to think. I tried so hard to gain unconditional love and acceptance from her. I spent my life trying this and trying that. Nothing worked.

Everything I did was done to please my mother. I loved her unconditionally and tried to see only the best in her. Everything she wanted me to be, I became. If she preferred a particular color, I wore that color. If she liked a type of perfume, I did too. I chose a career based on what would make her look good, even though I never wanted that career. I wanted something different, but she told me I’d fail at that and wouldn’t make her look good. I believed her when she said it.

My entire life, I was a possession of my mom’s, there to make her look and feel good about herself.  Sadly, she felt she owned my thoughts, emotions, and time. If she did anything for me, I had to repay her with loyalty. And when I got married and had kids, she got much worse. She tried to break up my relationship with my husband. She tried to persuade me that he was a cheater like my stepdad. She wanted to get me to doubt him. Once we had kids, she tried to manipulate my kids and pets into loving her more. Luckily, her attempts failed. My kids loved me unconditionally, and I loved them back. They knew who their mother was and didn’t want to replace me.

Everyone in my mom’s inner circle played a specific role. I was her favorite person because I gave her the most praise and validation. I was always there to comfort her. I regulated her emotions and became her emotional support pet and therapist wrapped into one. And I did all this not because I wanted to but because I was programmed to do so. From a baby, I learned to put my needs aside to make her happy.

I fulfilled the role that was expected of me even as I became a wife and mom. If I didn’t, the false close mother-daughter mirror would shatter, and so would the fragile pieces of my heart connected to the gaping wound in hers.

I developed all sorts of chronic illnesses as a result of my role. It got so bad that I even developed CPTSD. Every time the phone would ring or a text notification went off, I would be filled with intense dread. I would feel depressed. I felt engulfed and suffocated with every interaction. I would shake, and my heart would race out of fear that it was her calling or texting and wanting to engulf me again. I tried many times to get away but kept being dragged back in. I tried to limit my interactions with her, but something would happen, and I’d get pulled back in.

It got to the point where I had a hard time sleeping. I started having intense flashbacks of memories from the past. I had dreams of monsters with my mom’s face as the monster. I felt exhausted and fatigued whenever I saw her in person or talked to her. I felt a migraine or experienced a horrible 10/10 pain flare. I was traumatized because my body knew what my heart did not.

One day, it got so bad that I thought I was having a heart attack from stress. After the fifth call in a day, I said, “Enough is enough.” I became angry and fed up. I was tired of all her neediness and my anxiety. It was on that day that something shifted in me. I decided I needed to change the dynamics, or I would die trying. I then looked up childhood trauma therapists and began doing some inner healing work. I’d had therapy before a few times here and there, but it never got to the root of anything.

This therapist was different. She listened to me. She saw me. She heard me and she created a safe place where I could talk about my trauma and my past. We uncovered lifetime abuse. I made lists of all the abuse. We used EMDR to get through horrible situations that I had buried deep inside. My therapist and I talked about my mom’s untreated BPD and her very strong NPD tendencies. Although she couldn’t give my mom an official diagnosis, she stated that my mom might have BPD and NPD and that I needed to learn more about those conditions, even if my mom was never diagnosed. My therapist suggested that I read Understanding the Borderline Mother by Christine Anne Lawson.

It took several weeks for me to get through it. Why? Because I had to stop and reread it numerous times. I would get triggered by sections and had to take breaks. I had to let the information sink in. I resonated with ALL of that book. With time, I accepted that my mom likely had BPD. She was probably the Queen type, and I was an “All Good” adult child who spent her entire life trying to please her mom. The problem, however, was that I couldn’t fill up the gaping hole within her. I couldn’t help her abandonment issues.

Through counseling, I also learned about enmeshment and agreed that I was likely too enmeshed with my mom. But how could I set boundaries when I had never actually learned what they looked like? I knew the word, sure – but I had no idea how to create them. I didn’t realize that it was healthy to have them, and I certainly had never tried to set them until one day when I’d had enough.

One day, I exploded on a call with my mom.  It was after the 5^th or 6^th call of the day. I reached my breaking point, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I told my mom I needed a break from all the calls. I told her I could no longer be the source of her happiness. I told her that she was suffocating me and that I needed time and space to heal. I told her she had to figure out her problems because I had to focus on mine. I reclaimed my sense of self. I took the focus off her.

I stopped answering the phone whenever she called and reached out to her for help with every little thing. I learned how to grey rock her and not tell her about my everyday life whenever we talked. I stopped telling her about my struggles, which had always seemed to make her deliriously happy. I talked to myself instead. I comforted the inner child within me. I told her I would care for her and help her feel safer.

I finally understood that what I experienced was abuse and that none of it was my fault. The fake conditional love that my mom had administered all those years was only manipulation and control for her to maintain a sense of power. She never encouraged independence. She never wanted me to abandon her, but I had to do that in the end to find myself.

It was tough letting go. It was difficult forgiving myself for the part I played in the enmeshed relationship. I often had (and still have) intense displaced guilt from separating. I often feel physically ill whenever I think about not being there for her. I still feel responsible for her happiness and worried about her being lonely. However, those feelings are lessening as I heal the relationship with myself and separate. I now see that I cannot control anyone else’s emotions, and it is not my job or my responsibility to make her or anyone else happy at the expense of losing me.  

Every day is a journey toward peace and tranquility. I am so thankful for my husband and adult kids, who showed me what healthy love looks like. I appreciate them for supporting me on my growth journey. For acknowledging my progress. For believing in me.  I am also thankful to my trauma therapist, who encouraged me and continues to guide me through my traumatic past. I appreciate the knowledge she shares and the tools she gave me to handle anxiety and guilt. I am thankful for my anxiety medication that my internal medicine doctor gave me on hard days.

Finally, I want to thank my mom for “choosing to have me” as she often bragged about. She may not be my one consistent bright spot, and I am no longer hers. My mother has taught me some valuable lessons, specifically on how I don’t want to be.

These days, I realize that my mom is like a beautiful red apple that looks so pretty on the outside; however, there are some very dark and rotten parts when you bite it. I still love my mom and don’t know why she is the way she is. Perhaps her illness is trauma-based; however, I know for a fact that I can’t eat any part of her apple because it is not suitable for me.

As for me, I am like an unripened peach—tough on the outside but sweet on the inside and getting better with time. The more I heal my trauma, the more I will heal. My mom and I are not the same. Yes, we’re both fruits and can be placed in a fruit bowl, but we’re as different as fruits can be.

Maybe one day I will read My Mother, My Self or write my book, My Mother Is Not Me. Yeah, I like that title much better. It resonates with me more.

Here’s to healthy boundary setting, finding and being authentically you, and not living in your mother’s or anyone else’s shadow. You’ve got this! I believe in you.