My mother was the oldest of five children. Her father was a wealthy intellectual, progressive and politically very active. His sudden death when the children were still very young scarred my mother and her family’s life deeply. The family fortune was divided among the extended family, leaving my grandmother and her children with very little.

My mom spent the next years in a government boarding school on weekdays, and with her uncle and his wife on weekends. They were wealthy and reputable people, but underneath the surface, they operated a horror house. This aunt was a hard and serious person who systematically disciplined her own children and my mother. There was constant beating, mobbing and psychological pressure.

They learned how to behave via punishment and torture.

After finishing school my mom got a job as a school teacher in a small village. She was expected to be a good role model but with her strong personality and modern attitude she did not meet the conservative social ideas of her environment. She was fighting against injustice in every form including child labor and child marriage, so she constantly clashed with the villagers who opposed changing their traditions. She was really pushing her limits.

My mother was also supporting her family financially, putting all her siblings through school. She had so much weight on her shoulders already from a young age. It was a hard life. Although facing a lot of difficulties, she kept her idealism throughout her life, but this made my mom a very harsh and bitter person.

I think because of her experiences she turned into a psycho.

My mom never talked about her life too much, but she always kept a diary. This is how I learned more about her. Yes, I should not have read it, but there is a reason why I did.

My mother went through a long period of depression and attempted suicide twice. I was still in primary school when it happened for the first time. I found her usually well-hidden diary lying openly on the table. I read the last entry and realized, she had gone out to commit suicide. My father was on a business trip and I was alone with my brother. We caught her in the act, when she was about to jump from the top of a building.

From that time, I started reading her diaries regularly.

Our family was not very traditional. In our house my mother ruled. We had to do whatever she asked us to do. Her strict regime gave her such a bad reputation that we could not find a cleaning lady even though my mother was willing to pay double. So she did the cleaning at home and we all had to participate. As for my father, there was surely no other man in the whole country who was ironing his clothes and cleaning the windows. On the one hand, this was very progressive, but on the other hand she was like this in every aspect of life. She had a certain way of thinking that everyone had to follow.

When I was a kid, I was in love with my mother even though she was harsh. When I tried to get some kisses or hugs she would push me away telling me to not be so slick and that she didn’t like such insincere behavior. She said “Show your love with your actions and success.” This marked my life.

I tried to always do everything correctly.

I was the first in class and the first in school, but instead of praise, my mom said that I was doing this for myself and my own future so I couldn’t expect a gift. She said that for her, grades didn’t matter, she only cared about me becoming a good and righteous person.

She always found something to criticize. After I dusted the shelves, she would double check everything closely. If she found any remaining dust grain, I would have to dust everything again. If she found one untidy garment in my wardrobe, she would take everything, including my underwear, out and throw it from the balcony on the street. I would have to go downstairs and pick it all up. She did this throughout my childhood and adolescence for discipline. I am not so sure whether that worked for me.

Instead, I just perfected my crimes over time, and for as long as I can remember, we always fought.

She never asked me in any matter what I wanted or what I liked. She decided how things had to be done, how I had to dress and what I had to eat. From early primary school, I started playing the piano. My mom pushed me a lot to practice and the teacher said I was talented and should consider it as a career. I never wanted it. I always liked to paint but my mother didn’t allow it because she said it was dirty. Playing the piano was demanding. After school and on weekends, I was practicing 4-5 hours a day. I never went out to play with other kids, it was very isolating.

I had always been a somewhat sickly child, but at some point in my teens, I developed serious health issues. The doctors were concerned considering my young age but my mom believed that it was my own doing and I was only looking for attention. She blamed me for pushing my limits. I remember thinking I should just die if that’s what she thinks. I never played the piano again and she didn’t talk to me for almost a year.

A lot of time has passed. Recently, life gave me the opportunity to completely stop and think about myself, what I am doing and what I want, something I had never done before. I was always rushing from one thing to the next, always on the move towards liberation and independence, and I realized that deep inside I was constantly unhappy.

I want to changed that and I don’t want to make the same mistakes that I did in the past. It’s tiring and a slow path.

I have some behavioral patterns that are quite harmful to myself. For example, I am afraid of making mistakes, so I get lost in details before I make a move. I am constantly criticizing myself, and I exploit myself in relationships.

When you grow up in an environment where there is only criticism, you have a constant feeling that whatever you do you will not satisfy others, and that you are not valuable enough to be loved. In the concept of love that my mom taught me, it’s not enough to love people purely, but you have to show it. That’s why I can’t say no to people, why I always try to be the giving part in my friendships and the one who is listening and going out of her way to help everyone. I desperately want others to love me, because to a certain level my love meter is always empty.

This way love comes so much harder and when things fall apart it really hits me. And really, if you don’t value and respect yourself, people don’t give any fuck about you.

I am not blaming my mom anymore because that will not solve my problems. In a way it is not her fault, but I know that our relationship harmed me a lot. I think my mom would have needed help to repair her own scars but she didn’t have that luxury, so she inflicted all this suffering on me.

She repeated with me exactly what she had suffered during her youth: constant criticism, severe punishment and beating. The beating stopped at some point because I started behaving back to her like a psychopath and she got scared of me. I was even afraid of myself. I really hated her so much.

I still don’t like her. I just pretend.

I call my parents once in a while making sure they are ok, but the conversations never go beyond basic small talk. I am not telling them what I do, what I work, or where I live. They don’t know anything about me.

I think if my parents saw how I am living, what kind of person I am, they may actually like me. I made some good choices in life. I studied well, I have a good profession and I am in a healthy relationship with a nice person. It is a nice life and I am a nice human being. I think I meet all her requirements. I wish they would come to my house and we could sit and talk like normal people. I would prepare some nice food for my mom and we could talk about many things like books and travelling. We actually have many things in common. But my last attempt to heal our relationship failed badly, so they will never know who I am.

That’s the unsaid thing. I wish they would know me and I wish she would realize that you love people sometimes just because you love them.


Also published on Medium.

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