Our Relation is Hatred.

   There is a quote that reads, "a mother is the only person in the world who can turn a daughter's worries and fears into happiness." — anonymous. This excerpt's significance may differ from person to person. For me, it does not ring true. It does not accurately describe the relationship between my mother and I. My mother never managed to transform my "worries and fears into happiness" during any point of my life. At least, from my side of things, I cannot speak on the behalf of my mother, my mother and I have a dreadful and unhealthy relationship. In this essay, I am going to open up about the relationship between my mother and I. 

   It has been a long-standing customary practice in the Caribbean for parents to physically abuse their children in an effort to instil discipline in them. Like many other mothers in the Caribbean, my mother has disciplined me physically rather than speaking to me about what I've done and the repercussions of my actions. Using her bare hands, a leather belt or whatever else was in reach at the time, my mother would get angry and strike me out of exasperation no matter whether or not the mistakes I made growing up were honest ones or not. Citing examples from one's own experience, when I failed to put a bottle of water in the freezer the night before school, my mother punched me across my face the following morning because of my carelessness. It was a genuine mistake on my part; I was preoccupied with other tasks, like rushing to finish my homework so that I could head to bed early. This is only one example out of many. Growing up, I was beaten a lot as a punishment. Because of this, I was forced to—and occasionally still do—always approach my mother with caution. I was unable to voice my thoughts or opinions to my mother because doing so would result in me receiving discipline for being rude and disrespectful towards her. There were undoubtedly other methods to discipline me besides harming me, thus I always harboured hatred toward her for doing so when I was a child.

   My mother continues to believe that she has free rein to frequently violate my personal boundaries just because she is my mother, despite the fact that we have had several conversations about how her actions have negatively impacted my everyday life. She consistently infringes on my basic human right to autonomy and privacy. My mother has a habit of touching me inappropriately without apparent reason and when I express disgust and call her out on what she is doing, she justifies it by saying, "I can do whatever I want because I am your mother" or, "I used to change your diapers and bathe you when you were a baby, there is nothing to hide from me." It makes me incredibly uncomfortable and disgusted with myself whenever she touches or makes an unsavoury comment about my body. Often times, while i'm dressing after having a bath or undressing to prepare for a bath, she stares at my breasts and comments on the way they look — "i wish my breasts stood up like yours," "it have people out there who wished they had boobs like yours," or whenever I speak about being insecure about my breasts, she'd suck her teeth and roll her eyes and make a statement about women with breast cancer who would do anything to have what I have. I hate when she looks at me and makes remarks about my physical appearance, devaluing the quality of my appearance and criticising every aspect of my body. When did it occur to me that I detest the sensation of my mother's hands on my body? I'm not sure, however, my skin begins to crawl and I start to feel nervous and overwhelmed whenever she puts her hands on me, even if it's not in a sexual sense. I detest the feeling of my mother's hands on my body, whether they are just rubbing my back, stroking my shoulder, or caressing my hand. I can never get rid of the feeling of her touching me, no matter how many times I claw at the area or scrub the area when I have a bath — I will always feel the unnerving sensation of my mothers hands on my body, like worms beneath my skin. It makes me feel sick, and I hope to one day be rid of that feeling. 

   My mother has a habit of purposefully dismissing me when I speak or try to speak with her about any given topic. It has been made clear to me that she finds me to be a nuisance and only puts up with me out of obligation because she has a duty to do so given that I am still a minor. She gets so incredibly irritated by my presence, whether I'm trying to confide in her or I'm just delighted to talk to her about my special interests. She sighs loudly, rolls her eyes, and claims she's not in the mood to talk. She may also claim I talk too much or tell me to be quiet. Every time I try to talk to her, she responds in this way, and even though it hurts, I always crawl back to her. Being aware that my mum despises me so much despite the fact that she herself seems completely unaware that she despises me hurts like hell. My mother always opens up to me about the awful things she is going through, and I have to listen because if I don't show that I'm concerned, she accuses me of being a bad daughter and goes off on a rant about how she truly believes that I hate or don't like her. And I never respond to her assumptions or give her any feedback in return, because if I do I will be in great trouble. I don't understand why I must yearn for my mother's love? Her love should not require me to be grieving — grieving for what may have been and what will never be. I keep telling myself that she won't bother me for much longer, because I will take my freedom by force and escape from my home that never felt like such. It's heavy, but I know it will pass.

   Mothers are supposed to be there for their children when they need them, teach them the value of their own worth, and provide them the freedom to make mistakes and grow from them. My mother has never supported me, she never taught me the importance of my own worth, and she's never given me the opportunity to make mistakes and learn from them. I was neglected and punished for the most of my life, and as a result, I suffered. To my mother, it was just another day in the life. My mother — the only person who ought to be my refuge and safe place instead makes me feel uneasy and jumps down my throat about everything. There is a thin line between love and hate, and it is blurred. My mother and I — our relation is hatred.

written by; percival

(1,196 words)