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I don’t love my mother.
I can already hear the whispers: “Surely there’s some love there?” But the answer is no. I do not love her, and I feel no guilt about that because she never loved me first.
It was another estranged child’s words, “They didn’t love me first,” that made me realize my feelings are valid. It’s true. Our parents initiated this cycle. We spent our childhoods pouring love into them, hoping for a return that rarely came. Many people continue this quest into adulthood, seeking their parents’ affection. But it’s entirely reasonable to reach a point where you recognize that love was never truly reciprocated. How could it be when they never allowed it?
What we often end up loving is the idea of our parents, their potential to be good, even if that potential is just a figment of our imagination.
I often feel judged for my lack of love for my mother. I can see where others are coming from; they have healthy relationships shaped by loving parents. They try to empathize with my situation, but they can’t fully grasp what it means to have a mother like mine.
My mother wasn’t a nurturing figure; I was the one who took on that role. I cared for her, shielded her, and managed her emotions. I made excuses for her behavior. My love for her was not the product of a healthy mother-daughter bond; it was filled with anxiety, duty, and an unending feeling of inadequacy. I thought if I were devoted enough, she would love me unconditionally, instead of only when it suited her.
For twenty-four years, I loved her. That love was far from easy; it was a source of pain that took a toll on my mental health. I forgave her repeatedly, altered my behavior to win her approval, and took responsibility for her shortcomings. I acted like an overprotective parent, shielding her from the consequences of her actions.
Perhaps I had a hand in her becoming such a difficult person. Though my intentions were good, I inadvertently contributed to her toxicity. But I was just a child, trapped in a role she forced upon me, believing that my actions would earn her love and approval.
When I claim I don’t love my mother, people often fail to comprehend the depth of my previous affection. They don’t see that distancing myself has liberated me. They rarely consider the reasons behind my feelings. Our culture emphasizes the importance of “honoring thy mother and father,” but how can I honor someone who embodies dishonor?
One of the most challenging aspects is my mother’s complete lack of remorse. As I reflect on my childhood, I struggle to remember a single instance in which she expressed regret. She showed no remorse when she put me in dangerous situations, leading to abuse. She never acknowledged the emotional toll it took on my sisters and me, nor did she care when we suffered from mental health issues. She never apologized for her temper or the hurtful words that eroded our self-esteem. And she certainly wasn’t sorry when I finally summoned the courage to confront her.
While many mothers experience guilt, my mother seemed incapable of feeling it. She never accepted responsibility for her actions, often shifting the blame onto me. I recall an incident where she erupted in anger over something trivial. Instead of taking accountability, she blamed me for my panic attack, claiming she couldn’t see me through the walls, even as she could hear me gasping for breath.
Sometimes, it wasn’t just her actions that hurt me but her inaction. When I faced bullying at school, she often twisted the narrative to make it seem like it was my fault. Her lack of support, validation, and loyalty left me feeling unloved. She never stood up for me—instead, she seemed to understand the bullies, as if she related to them.
She didn’t protect me from the bullies, from my father’s harshness, or from the abuse I endured. Yet, I consistently shielded her. Though she never taught me to appreciate my own worth, I was a good daughter—kind, loyal, and forgiving.
Eventually, I reached a breaking point in adulthood. I had to distance myself from her, not out of desire but necessity. Estranging oneself from a parent is rarely a choice; it feels more like a last resort.
Staying in that environment would have jeopardized my emotional well-being and my life. Her lack of affection drove me to contemplate suicide. I reached a point where I felt utterly worthless and believed I had exhausted every effort to win her love.
Choosing not to love her has restored my power. I no longer crave her approval and have accepted that she never truly loved me. Although the process of letting go of my past love for her has been excruciating, it has ultimately been the best decision I could make.
I don’t withhold love from my mother because I’m a bad person. It’s a matter of bravery and self-preservation. I have more meaningful relationships to nurture—my sisters, my husband, and my daughter. Why would I waste my love on someone who makes me feel like I want to disappear when I could offer it to those who make my life fulfilling?
I don’t love my mother because I value myself too much to allow her to hurt me again.
If you’re interested in more stories, you might enjoy this post about navigating complex family relationships.
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- Understanding estrangement from parents
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In summary, the journey of learning to navigate and ultimately distance oneself from an abusive parent is fraught with emotional challenges. It’s an act of reclaiming one’s life and self-worth, allowing for the opportunity to foster healthier relationships with those who truly matter.
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