I fucking hate Mother’s Day.

There. I said it.

My mother is a toxic narcissist who fucked my brother and I up in more ways than I can count. I’ve been in therapy for going on nine years and I am still discovering more and more layers to the onion of trauma that I try very hard not to let rule my life. The dark depths to which I was sunk in order to meet her psychotic expectations is astounding.

Do I sound angry today? I feel angry today. Angry about it all. Angry that I had to endure all that I endured (many details of which have been written about in previous posts on this blog, and many more of which I am still processing and unearthing). Angry that she put me through all that. Angry that she put me in a position where seven years ago, I had to cut off all contact with her and anybody who allied with her, inevitably resulting in grievous collateral damage. Angry that, based on the fact that she apparently is still trying to claim grandmotherhood to my daughter who’s never met her (and never will), she has absolutely no idea how badly she has damaged me and still feels entitled to try to demand a presence in my life.

And I’m angry that society thrusts upon us all the expectation that Mother’s Day is a day we must celebrate, at an absurdly pervasive level. You can’t step into any sort of public place from the grocery store to the post office, or go online to shop from a department store website to even the silliest apps and games on your phone, without being inundated with ads and goods for sale for this day. I’m angry because I don’t have a mother to celebrate, and it won’t get out of fucking face.

“But you’re a mom yourself! Lean into that!” I can hear (nonexistent) people saying. It’s true, no one is actually saying that to me. But it’s a thought in my head that sounds like something well-meaning people would suggest. I have an amazing six-year-old who’s simply excited to celebrate and shower me with love this Sunday. And yes, I’m angry about that too. Not at her, but at the position it puts me in where I have to try my best to put on a happy face for her. Granted, that’s something mothers do for their kids on any other day they’re not in a great place but still have to maintain the illusion of being fine. But it’s extra fucking hard on a day that puts an exclamation point on a lifetime of memories of needing to maintain that exact illusion for my own mother, who couldn’t ever handle me being anything other than fine.

My therapist is helping me understand the difference between obligation and choice. I do feel obligated to be pleasant and present on Mother’s Day with my daughter and my husband and my in-laws. But, giving in to that sense of obligation is a choice that I need to make. I can make the choice to lock myself in a room and stay away from people, and if said people get upset or disappointed, then they’re upset or disappointed. Or, I can make the choice to do what other people expect or desire of me; then I’m the one who ends up upset or disappointed. I think my therapist’s point was to try to illuminate the fact that I am not trapped in obligation — I can make choices. Choices will of course have consequences, but, I have options. I’m not locked in to whatever anyone else decided the day will dictate. I have autonomy. This idea does help, but, it doesn’t make the execution of these choices much easier.

How do I feel about that? You guessed it, angry.

This year my intention is to balance taking time for myself to have my feelings with going along with the Sunday plans that were basically made without my input. Next year, I am going to try to be more vocal about what I need.

Lately I’ve been pretty strung out from trying to break free from the perception that I am either excelling at what I’m doing, or I’m completely fucking it up, with no in-between. This was the expectation I was raised with — I had to succeed and be amazing, because my brother was the one with the problems, and there wasn’t enough room left for me to have any problems or shortcomings of my own. As a result, I’ve developed what my therapist says is called high-functioning codependency. I measure my self-worth based on how others perceive what I do and how I do it. And if there is anything less than total success, it puts me into a place where I feel not just sad or upset but unsafe. Because it was unsafe to be unsuccessful when I was growing up. As you can imagine, this has occasionally given me significant trouble at work. I don’t take criticism well at times; I get very defensive. I put far too much pressure on myself and take things too personally, believing that every mistake that my students might make is a reflection of me. I’ve become aware enough of this issue now to try to counter these thoughts as they enter my head, but it’s been really difficult. I even had a panic attack walking in to school one morning this past week because the performative pressure became too much in that moment. I am, truly, actively working on healing from this traumatized self-perception, because I cannot be rendered nonfunctional by how I think other people are feeling about me and what I’m doing.

So, I’m angry that society expects me to love the woman who made me this way. I love my daughter and I love my mother-in-law and I fucking hate Mother’s Day.