Life with an emotionally immature mother

For years, I lived in the shadow of my mother's emotions. Here's how I found compassion for the both of us.

Cypress trees, Guadalupe River, TX

“Maybe it would have been better if you hadn’t come to visit,” my mother’s message said. “Your child seems to only have herself in mind.”

This surprise text arrived after we got home from a recent weekend trip to Corpus Christi, where I grew up. We had spent Saturday celebrating my daughter’s eleventh birthday at the beach, swimming in the Gulf and getting too much sun. On Sunday we had lunch with my parents, before we drove back to Austin.

The meal had been pleasantly uneventful. Or so I thought. That evening, she sent that message above. Like so many times in the past, rather than tell me what was wrong, she chose to be indirect, turning it into a game, a mystery to solve: What’s my mother upset about now?

And like so many times in the past, I ran through all the possible ways I could respond, a “choose your adventure” game nobody wants, in which I try to determine the “best” answer.

There were lots of old standbys I could pull from, such as:

• Responding with a fawning inquiry so she sensed I was upset, mirroring and prioritizing her emotions. “Oh no, what happened?”

• Or, apologizing vaguely without trying to find out what the issue is, which would make the problem go away faster while still conveying concern. “I’m so sorry to hear that. You know how kids are!”

• Or, if she got increasingly hostile, block her. This shuts down the conversation, ending the drama temporarily. And we only get angry at people we care deeply about, right? (In the past, she often had already blocked me before I could block her.)

That last option was tempting. I don’t know what specifically had angered her, but she was implying something about my kid, something bad. The mother bear in me was triggered: How dare she?

Living under the shadow of a parent’s mental illness

Instead of resorting to any of these responses, I gathered my wits and used everything I’ve learned in the past few years, like remembering the core issue at hand: Her poor emotional processing. My mother developed a mental illness in her late teens, which stunted her emotional growth. In many ways, this meant she was left with the emotional capabilities of a teenager. Until I read Adult Children of Emotionally Immature Parents, I didn’t understand this, and took everything she did personally, internalizing it and blaming myself. This only got worse in my thirties when she developed a mysterious chronic pain condition, and attempted suicide repeatedly over the course of several years. That’s when her inability to regulate her emotions became terrifying — aka traumatizing — and I lost part of myself in my effort to avoid potentially triggering her, a loss that affected everything and everyone in my life.

But zoom forward a few years? Fortunately I have worked past so much of that. I not only understand her better than I ever have, I understand myself. When her text arrived, I put myself first: What did I want to respond with? What felt right for me? I decided it was being open about my displeasure and making it clear I wasn’t going to play games. So I wrote:

“I don’t know what you’re talking about and acting passive-aggressive about whatever has pissed you off is not the way to communicate with me.”

That got her attention. She wrote back and explained she had felt snubbed by my daughter when we had all gathered outside to say goodbye. Apparently my mother asked for a hug, and my daughter didn’t act enthusiastic enough about it (like any normal tween might do, you know, because she’s a tween).

“I’ll let her know that her actions hurt your feelings,” I responded, fully intending to talk to my kiddo about how to politely refuse hugs from grandparents.

But my mother beat me to it. She had already texted my daughter. And it was her typical veiled missive, sent out of context, with no reference to what had upset her:

“You didn’t seem very glad to see me,” she wrote her granddaughter.
”You acted like you wish you hadn’t come.”

Feeling my feelings, finally

ARGH. A big boundary had been crossed, but at least I could be a protective layer between my mother and my daughter, which I didn’t have growing up. Through tears (I was still sad this whole thing was happening—I’m human, after all), I explained to my daughter that my mother has always struggled to handle strong emotions, not always responding in a grown-up way. And it’s not personal, it’s just something she does. (In the back of my mind, I was thinking: I hope I’m making the right decision, letting my mother have direct digital access to my daughter?)

Navigating my relationship with my mother has never been easy, but these days I at least understand why she acts this way. While some people in similar situations (like my brother) break ties with their baffling and frustrating family members, I don’t (yet) feel that compulsion. For now, I’d rather have a tenuous and sometimes stressful relationship with her than no relationship at all.

I think some of it stems from wanting my daughter to know her grandparents, warts and all. When I was her age, I had already lost three of my grandparents, one to a violent suicide. They are blurs to me. But some of it stems from compassion—compassion I’ve gained for her, and compassion I’ve gained for myself. As Dr. Gibson likes to remind readers, all parents are doing the best they can with the tools they’ve been given. While I’ve long wished my mother had more tools, I’ve finally switched to collecting more of my own.

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