for all those who say 'kibud av veheim' read this then judge

amother ↓

Fri, Dec 23 2011, 2:39 am

Here is something I wrote about living life with a bpd mother. I wrote this in response to threads that were going around about difficulties adult children were facing with their mothers and to my disbelief the answers seemed to be that kibud av veheim comes before anything. I thought it could be possible that people just don't know any better and that is why they are quick to pass judgement. So I hope this can give you all a better understanding.

For the first 18 years of my life I lived in a place I called home - a home by name only. I had 6 siblings and 2 parents - a mummy and an aba - well that is what we called them. Yet my mummy was not what you would expect of a mother instead we lived with an intimidating terrifying witch.

My mother has bpd disorder in the book understanding the borderline mother by Christine Anne Lawson bpd mothers are categorized by 4 personality types. The waif, the queen, the hermit and the witch. My mother encompassed all of these personality types at times but her dominant personality is most definitely the witch.

The fear I hold for my mother still is alive and kicking inside me I cannot seem to let it go. I know intellectually that she does not hold the power over me she did when I was her child. But yet if I was forced to see her today all those fears would come rushing into the forefront of my brain. My body into the familiar fight and flight response as it did when I was a little girl. Once again defenseless against her. Faced with her I forget that I am now an adult and she does not hold authority over me. Just the cold stare and her sinister looks is enough to evoke very powerful anxiety reactions. My usual response is to freeze up, paralyze into submission knowing there is nothing I can do to stop her.

My mother was rarely the witch when another adult was around there were a few memorable occasions where she lost control and the witch came out in public - in a shopping center, in front of a friend, before a class but for the most part the witch would only emerge when we were home alone with her with no one to see it or defend us. The more my father submitted to her and enabled her behavior the less apprehensive she became of acting this way in front of him. In time he too became just another one of her subjects to ridicule and tear down.

My mother was an expert at duping all my classmates and their mothers into what an outstanding mother thought herself to be. We were considered extensions of hers and she worked us hard to ensure we would not displease her in front of those she admired and respected.

My mother enjoyed the fact that she could evoke fear in us. The satisfaction she gained from us breaking down and crying or begging her to stop could be seen by the thin smile masking her face as she beat us again and again. I tried very hard not to show my distress it was dangerous. The showing of fear or any emotion was a weakness and my mother thrived on exploiting our weaknesses.

My mother did not allow any forms of affection to be shown between siblings. She became insanely jealous of the bond my siblings and I shared and would try her utmost to pit us against each other in hopes of ruining our relationships. When we were younger and less aware her schemes worked. At times we hated each other for the things she made us do to one another all in the name of 'because it is best for us'. Once we were older and could detect the dynamics we were not so easily fooled. We took great pride in being able to give each other secret smiles and eye movements during one of my mother’s long never-ending rants but if we were caught there was hell to pay for this.

I’m convinced my mother enjoyed watching us suffer. The part in me that is still her child wants to believe that this could not be the case. But why then did she love to ridicule and humiliate us and force our siblings to watch? Why would she force us to lie on the bed when we were young teenagers to give us smacks on our behind and then get us to apologize to our siblings for having to watch the humiliation?

Under no condition was it safe to tell my mother secrets or confide in her. We were all aware that this was a very dangerous thing to do. If she knew how badly we wanted things she would use this as punishment by withholding it from us. If she noticed we were scared of something she would ridicule and humiliate us for this. We were commanded to spend time with her for 'special mother daughter bonding time' and forced to sit there until we confided in her. The easiest and safest way to get around this was to make up feeling, fears or desires and hope that she would accept it.

My mother would tell us with venomous contempt all the time- pretty much on a daily basis how much she wanted to kill us. Or alternatively how much she wished we were no longer alive, we deserved to die, wish we were never born, we were evil to the core with no redeeming qualities, or many such phrases like these. Over time telling us these things had no visible effect on us. We learnt quickly to manage these hostile expressions by letting the words slide of our backs and not taking them in. Many many nights as I sat there listening to one of her malicious tirades that went on for hours either against one of us or someone in the community I would vividly imagine the words entering my head through one ear and leaving out the other. That and trying to illicit secret smiles from siblings was the only way to get through these never ending rants of hatred. Movement during one of these rants was dangerous. If we were standing when it started we had to remain standing for the next few hours any movement was a trigger that could direct the rage at us. Eventually we became immune to her words. It had to happen there is only so many times one can hear how much their mother wishes for them to die etc. before shutting down.

Every now and then one of my siblings would experiment with fighting back, arguing with my mother. The punishment that occurred with this was not worth the momentary satisfaction we gained from stealing some of the power back. The only way to manage this situation was too surrender. Allow her to believe she was controlling us and learn to suffer through her rage.

It was no use hiding when my mother became the witch because the punishment for this was far worse. Any indication of fear begging, crying, promising to be better, were all useless and only threw my mother into a deeper frenzy. The best way was to submit allowing her to believe she had controlled you and wait until the rage passed. I would be a blank slate I would not submit. I did not overtly argue with my mother the way some of my siblings had but I would not show fear either and for that my mother hated me because she could not get this reaction from me. I refused to allow her to see my fear but this was not to my benefit as my mother would hit me harder, attack me stronger verbally all in an attempt to illicit some reaction from the stone wall I had become.

Definitely the worst part about growing up with such a mother was the never knowing, the constant real fear of the unknown. It was very unpredictable. Her rages had no sense of purpose to them, no rhyme or reason, no triggers we could predict. Her attacks were unexpected many times just as we had allowed ourselves to breathe for a mini second sure that all was fine. At no time were we able to prepare ourselves for her tempers it was always when least expected. Just when we assumed my mother could not possibly be angry the witch would emerge in a thunderous murderous explosion and pick a victim in which she could direct her rage. We walked on constant eggshells. Never sure what could spark one of her rages we were constantly alert never resting for a second when she was around. We learnt early to read her moods and the only control we felt we had was in the ability to predict when this would happen. Although many times even this was out of our grasp it was too sudden. One minute she was the loving kind mother and the next minute she had turned into the terrifying witch -literally.

We could be packing up to go on a nice holiday everyone happy smiling although constantly alert for any changes in my mother’s mood. Things could seem alright when suddenly her rage would fill the air and her razor sharp words would pierce our souls. Threatening to kill us, throw us out of the house, withdraw a promised treat. It was the fact that it was so random, we received no warning. This caused us to fear her more than the actual physical and emotional abuse she heaped upon us when she was actually in her rages. It was almost a relief when she erupted and let go of the burning violence building up inside her at least then we could breathe again knowing we had a little reprieve before the next time.

My mother would choose one of us to be the target of her rage usually for some unexplainable reason. Every time it was so different. As much as we tried to 'learn from our mistakes' it was no help because she would find a new reason to punish us. When the rage was directed at me I became 'that child' the one who cannot be referred to by name because 'that child' was too despicable to be a human being. I became an object to be scorned at, ridiculed, shamed, and degraded. She would force my siblings to join in the humiliation and threatened with punishment if they did not they would. When we were younger this was painful but once we were old enough to understand we would regroup after this in private to apologize. A mutual understanding between us that we only saying these things because we were forced not by any means because we meant it.

When the rage was over it was over -until next time. My mother quickly forget that she had almost physically beaten us to death and wonder why we shrank away from her like scared rabbits and hated to hug her. When she felt some sense of guilt for her actions she would project this onto us forcing us to write copious amounts of essays on how we had provoked her into behaving in this manner. Essays always had to contain how we were not perfect and never would be and therefore our appreciation to our mother for her care of us. Appreciation that she would go to this extent to help us change our horrible behavior. We would be required to stay up late into the night writing letters on our gratitude and how fortunate we were for a mother like this. We would have to edit and re edit until it was word perfect and mother approved.
There were certain tones of voices, certain facial expressions that made us tremble inside knowing that my mother was about to explode. At this time we would try behave extra well in hope that she would not find anything to get angry about. It was useless there was always something. Something that last week she had applauded this week became something to be punished for.

My mother reacted to all of her children differently. Some were the 'all good' children some were the 'all bad children' and then there were some siblings who got her best side and her worst side. At times they were the all good child and at times they were the no good child.

We existed solely as extensions of my mother. My older sister was an all good child but this too came with its downfalls. My younger sister and I were the no good children in our family. My mother projected parts of herself that she abhorred onto us. My mother for some reason hated her dark skin and as well she struggled with her weight. My younger sister took after my mother in skin colour. My mother constantly teased and taunted my sister calling her black and ugly. The ‘shvatze’ or the Niger were common ways my mother would demean my sister.

I took after my mother with my body shape. As a teenager I was not overweight but I was not like my sisters who were taller and slimmer and could eat whatever they wanted and not pay for it. I had to be careful and watch what I ate. My mother constantly demeaned and ridiculed me for this. She controlled what we wore so she would buy me clothes that were larger then needed and looked hideous on me. I would have no choice but to wear it. I could never receive any clothes from overseas which our grandparents would periodically send because I was perceived as too big. At meal times I was ostracized from the family and told that I was not allowed to eat what everyone else was eating because I was fat. Of course she did not provide me with healthy alternatives and so there were many nights I starved. As every minute of our day was controlled there was no time for me to buy or make my own food so I was forced to rely on my mother’s permission to eat. Family outings were nightmares because there was always food and treats involved that I of course was not allowed to be a part of. She always made my siblings promise not to hand me anything in secret. I was regularly told that I was a pretty face and nothing more. No one would want to marry me with a body like mine. I was amazed to learn once I got married that I was well within my average weight for my height and not actually overweight.

It wasn’t only in body shape I differed from my sisters. My older and younger sisters share a similar personality not unlike my mothers. They are both hard working, ambitious go getters which my mother admired. I on the other hand am more laid back and relaxed, ambitious in my own way but this was perceived as laziness by my mother. Not a day went by that I was not told I was lazy and could not hold up a candle to my sisters. Not a day went by that I was not compared to my 2 siblings and asked why I could not be like them. Not a day went by that I was not examined and measured up to my sisters and shown how I fell short of the ideal. My mother had a very certain idea of who her children should be. My sisters fit this conception I did not. Fit it or not my mother was determined that by shaming, degrading, and humiliating me she could mould me into shape. I grew up thinking there was something inherently wrong with me that I could not be like my sisters who were so much better than me.

A typical day in our house began at 5am. Since there were 7 of us living in a small 3 bedroom apartment we had to share the one shower between us all. As my older sister was the’ all good child’ one of her privileges included being able to sleep in. Therefore I had to wake early to get up and shower and still have enough time to complete all my chores before school. After my shower I would awaken my younger sister and together we would clean up any mess that had been made to the house since the night before. My mother was a clean freak and she ensured that her house lived up to her standards. We both had our set jobs and we rushed around quietly working trying not to wake our siblings or mother.

As long as my mother slept the house was peaceful. But it was not long before we heard her orders to come into her room and help her. My mother stayed in her bed a lot she spent most of the day at her post from there commanding her subjects to fulfil her wishes. I was nominated by my mother as her own personal slave. I was in charge of making her bed numerous times until it was perfect, doing all her washing by hand, and making her breakfast to be served in bed. Sometimes when she woke too late it was hard to finish this all before school. So occasionally I was kept back and forced to walk to school arriving late because for my mother to do any of these things for herself was absolutely unheard of.

School was our escape the freedom of choice blissful. While my friends would count the hours till home time the dread in my stomach would grow as the clock approached 4pm. There were times I skipped class hid in one of the bathroom stalls and just read a book immensely enjoying the me time. I fantasized about living in that bathroom stall and never going home. Running away and escaping but the fear of being found and returned to my revengeful mother held me back from ever implementing my well thought out plans.

As soon as we arrived home it was rush, rush, work. My sister would cook dinner for the family while I would run around trying to finish all the laundry and cleaning. Dinners mainly consisted of cheap staples like bread, rice or cereal. My sister would have to cook a separate dinner for my mother of the nice meats/chicken and try to create something for us with the leftovers. Since these were generally unhealthy foods I was not allowed to have much and went to bed very hungry. These 2 hours before 6pm when we would all sit around the table and eat dinner were prime times for my mother’s rages. We treaded carefully, worked quick and hard to please under the constant watch of my mother in hope that the anger would not be directed at us.

After dinner my younger sister and I would wash and clean up. We had a whole list of night time chores that usually saw us working until 8 or 9 pm. My older sister as the all good child would spend this time with my mother listening to her as my mother confided in her all her thoughts and desires. My mother would then inspect our work and on the rare occasion it met her standards we were finally free to go and do our homework redoing and this time it had better measure up.

Homework time was always disturbed with calls for help from her bedroom. Sometimes it was just a drink or some food and we could get away quickly and return to our studies. But most times it was her wanting an hour long massages or a pair of listening ears as she complained and ranted about someone in particular who she was convinced was exploiting her and plotting against her.

If she would call someone in particular we would rush to her side but many times she just yelled for assistance without a name attached. We would argue between us as to who would have to go taking turns knowing that we could be stuck in her bedroom for hours many times until late into the night. She had no concept for time of for the fact that we had to study and get up early the next morning. Even once we were in bed almost asleep or actually sleeping already we would be pulled out to attend to her needs.

For modesty reasons my sisters and I were not allowed to leave the room without a robe and tights on. When my mother called us once we were in bed already we would hurry to dress ourselves appropriately. This triggered her rage and therefore punishment on us since we could not get to her fast enough. We learnt to sleep in our robes and tights to avoid this. To this day I hate wearing any tight fitting clothing when I sleep it makes me feel trapped in some way.

Because my mother did not work during the day she was able to sleep and rest while my siblings and I were at school. Night time became her playtime. The sound of her coming into our room in the dead of the night rummaging through our personal drawers evokes dread in my heart. If the noise awakened me I would lay still barely breathing in hope she would not notice that I was awake. Woe to us if she found something she perceived as threatening be it a candy that had slipped by her or even the fact that the cupboard was not neat to her standards. Lights would go on yelling would start and we were slapped awake and ordered up to explain or fix the mess. We rarely got back to sleep if this happened as my mother would then spend the next few hours berating us until finally running out of steam in the morning hours and fall asleep leaving us tired and moody to start another day of the same drudgery.

It was this day to day drudgery, the constant tension in the air, the fear in our hearts that never left, the powerlessness in our every movement that mars any memories good or bad from my childhood. Don’t get me wrong there were pleasant happy times as well. Holidays every summer and winter, family outings, dinners in the park. These were the good times when my mother demonstrated an ability to control herself and rarely lashed out. The dynamics of the family stayed the same during these calmer periods. I was still the no good child and my sister was still the all good one. But the physical beating s and verbal attacks were rare and we were able to breathe just a little easier. I have very strong memories of driving home from these holidays or day trips the mounting tension in the car as we got closer and closer to our residence. It was almost like a button in my mother she would cross the threshold and turn back into the old witch we knew. The build-up of anger she had held in all day would come pouring out and all our past sins would be recounted.

We did receive presents at times from my parents. Clothing and food were not assumed rights. We received them only when deemed worthy. But with the acceptance of the gift came the knowledge that sooner or later there would be a heavy price to pay. The guilt associated with being a taker even for items that were desperately needed was very high.

Let me talk about guilt. Anyone with a bpd mother can tell you about the guilt. My mother was a master manipulator in evoking high levels of guilt within. Guilt was a constant state we were in. Guilt for being alive, being allowed to breathe, needing food. Prodded by my mother every basic item we received would cause massive amount of guilt in us. When we needed items that were not necessary for basic survival such as money for a school trip, more than one change of Sunday clothing, healthy food etc. the guilt was tripled. When punished these items were quickly withdrawn. But the guilt was not only for the things we received for which we had to have endless appreciation. Guilt was also high when my mother was forced to do something for herself. I would feel immensely guilty if my mother had to stand up to get a drink of water for herself when I was in the same room. The guilt I felt on the rare occasions I was allowed at a friend’s place and observed their mothers cooking dinner for them was immense. I could not understand how my friend was allowing this to happen and was not rushing to her mother’s side and offering to do this herself. I feared for my friend that after I left her mother would lash out at her and punish her for this.

When I say that our every movement was controlled I am talking about needing to ask permission to use the bathroom. As the bathroom became a favourite hide out for some peace and quiet time limits were enforced to ensure we did not overuse it. Having friends over or going to friends’ houses were very rare treats. I can count on my hand the number of times I was allowed to invite a classmate into the house. My friends thought I succumbed to sickness quite easily as a teenager as being sick was the overused excuse for not turning up at the end of the year party or any such events. Being sick was used for missed excursions, sleepovers, camps, Shabbat afternoon invitations. My mother did allow us to attend some of these but she would choose carefully knowing that being absent too often could potentially cause problems.

As I got older and developed closer friendships I clued in one or two close friends a little into the situation. They were very understanding and would refrain from asking me out knowing I would not be allowed. Instead we would use our time at school or compulsory school camps to develop our friendships. I became very close with these friends and they provided me with a lifeline at times sneaking by late at the night when I was sure my mother was asleep to talk and laugh. This provided me with an escape and helped me feel like a normal teenager for a few minutes.

The pleasure gained from sneaking something past my mother was immense. Some of my best memories involve late night runs to the nearby milk bar to stoke up on some goodies and sharing them with my siblings. Another good memory is my brother buying us pizza (he was allowed more freedom as an all good child) and hiding it away in the closet to be shared once all our chores were done. A favourite was a rented dvd put out of sight to be enjoyed on the rare occasion my mother left the house. This sense of satisfaction still plays a part in all of our lives and my siblings and I still gain pleasure from buying things, hoarding them, hidden away to be enjoyed at a later time. I cannot tell you the amount of delight I still get in hiding away some special treat be it food or even a book knowing it is there waiting for me when I can sit down, relax and fully enjoy it.

A quote from the book understanding the borderline mother really stands out and speaks to me. “The witches children are victims of soul murder and may feel alive only when suffering or inflicting suffering. Her children learn not to fear danger; in fact, they may learn to seek it”