By Altaira Northe
@ctrlaltaira

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a strained relationship with most members of my immediate family. My family dynamic was extremely toxic, peppered with emotional and physical abuse, poverty, and some alcoholism thrown in for good measure. It wasn’t the worst childhood, but it certainly wasn’t the best. As I grew older and started to heal myself from years of trauma, I cut various family members out of my life one by one. It was easy to stop talking to my dad, then my oldest brother, both of whom were consistently misogynistic and verbally abusive. My middle brother was harder, until one morning when he called me drunk at 8 a.m. to tell me that I had an easy childhood and proceeded to yell slurs at me. But through so many ups and downs, the one that was hardest to let go of was my mom. 

Mothers hold a sort of reverence, and rightly so. The journey to motherhood is never easy. Oftentimes, they carry you in their bodies and sometimes literally tear themselves apart bringing you into the world, many undergoing years of medical interventions and loss for the privilege to deliver you Earthside; while others spend years going through the pains of surrogacy, fostering, and adoption, hoping and praying that one day a child will come into their life. More often than not, they take on most of the work raising you, sacrificing careers, social relationships, and marriages along the way. And they’re always there when you need them. Unless they’re not. 

For some of us, having a relationship with our mother means a constant stream of emotional abuse while dragging along the heavy burden of guilt that we should just take it because, in society’s eyes, we owe her the world. 

I always knew that there was something wrong with my mom. I just didn’t know what. Half the time, she was kind and loving and then the other half there was something else there. It started when I began turning her down when she dropped by school unexpectedly at lunch so that I could cut class with her to go for coffee. 

“Mom, I have a test this afternoon.” 

“That’s ok, I’ll write you a note.” 

She didn’t seem to understand that I had responsibilities now, and cutting out of a senior test that would affect scholarship prospects wasn’t worth grabbing a latte. When I turned 13, she told me that I was the most selfish person she’d ever met. And as I got closer to graduation, it got worse. One day she would tell me how she adored me and was proud of me, the next she would scream that I was a selfish, inconsiderate daughter and refuse to drive me to school in the morning. During one of these fights, when I walked away, she tried to hit me in the head with a marble lamp. But I’m sure the next day, she made me breakfast and offered to take me shopping.

This push and pull continued into adulthood, when my mom would call my work asking me to cut out for lunch or to grab her a lotto ticket. Which seems fine, right? What good mother doesn’t want to spend more time with her daughter? But it became clear that her desire to spend time with me had less to do with me, and more about her need for attention and to view herself as the ideal mother. Over the years, this played out as refusing to come to my house for Christmas dinner because it was “her thing,” throwing a fit a few days later demanding that I host because she’d hurt herself, only to find that she’d cooked an entire turkey dinner by 10 a.m. for my oldest brother because he was her baby. Or the time that my ex-husband and I had been planning a courthouse wedding followed by a reception on Galiano Island, my mom stating that she didn’t want to make the effort if it was “just a party.”

It seemed that no matter what I did, I could never please her. She didn’t care about the things that mattered to me, and when I tried to take an interest in the things that mattered to her, it was never enough. 

Then, one Christmas when I was living in Toronto, I decided to sneak back to the West Coast for four days just to see a few friends. I guess my mom had been secretly watching my Instagram. When she found out that I was home, she didn’t call me or reach out, she went to the airport and waited. When I arrived at the departure desk, rested and at ease, she came up to me and started screaming. I tried to explain why I just needed some time to myself, but she wouldn’t have it. She just started yelling, “YOU’RE A LIAR! YOU’RE A LIAR! YOU’RE A LIAR!” then finally “GOODBYE FOREVER!” before storming off. She later left me a tearful voicemail wishing me, “a happy birthday for the rest of my life.” 

I was at a loss and, in an effort to create boundaries in our relationship, I made a commitment – one 10-minute phone call at the same time every week. It was not a good relationship, but it was something, and it was the best that I could do without drowning myself emotionally. Months later, I was planning another trip back to Vancouver that would include a short visit with my mom. My trip came and went, and my mom missed our calls. I left messages but I didn’t hear from her. Then a week after returning to Toronto, the explanation came. “Oh, I went on a trip with your brother.” And after that winter, when she tore me down in front of an airport full of strangers, she still didn’t understand why I was upset. It was then that I truly realized that the issues in our relationship were never about me. I could take my mom to the Eiffel Tower, or never talk to her again, and I would still be the same ungrateful and self-centred daughter. 

So, after years of choosing my mom, I decided it was time to choose myself. 

Over the next few months, she left me voicemails, sometimes more than one a day, telling me either that she loved me and missed me or that I was a terrible, selfish daughter and that I was mentally ill. In one voicemail, she even went so far as to say that I was probably sexually abused as a child and that was why I didn’t talk to her — it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the years of emotional abuse. In the spring of 2017, I decided to move to Gibsons, B.C. A few close friends had recently moved there, and I’d already spent many a Thanksgiving on the Sunshine Coast. The day before my move, my mom showed up at a friend’s parents house looking for me and told them that I was going to try to kill myself. 

That summer, I met my now partner and pulled my public life into the dark. I didn’t advertise events I was running, or where I was going and I stopped writing online. It was hard enough when my mom showed up at airports to confront me. But I couldn’t bear to put this burden on a new partner. This change has slowly eaten away at me. Living my life out loud is a big part of who I am, and intentionally making myself smaller has stopped me from doing so many things that I love; writing being one of those things. But it’s not just that I don’t want my mom to show up somewhere and tear me apart, it’s that I also don’t want to hurt her any more. 

While I know that our not having a relationship causes her pain, I think that there is some small comfort in the narrative she’s created where I’m her mentally ill, selfish, and cruel daughter who she did everything she could to love. 

Letting go of this relationship has not been easy. While my mom has done a lot of shitty things, it obviously wasn’t all bad. I also have memories of her making me birthday cakes, bringing me homemade soup when I’m sick, and telling me that I’m a beautiful person and the light of her life. And… she’s my mom. I want to make her happy and I feel immense guilt for not talking to her. One pivotal lightbulb moment for me happened while listening to the podcast, “Stuff Mom Never Told You.” They had an episode about Borderline Personality Disorder, and everything just clicked. I fell down a rabbithole of forums for children of toxic mothers, and read books like “Mothers Who Can’t Love.” Talking with therapists about setting boundaries, and what’s normal parental behaviour also helped immensely. 

For years I had been banging my head against a wall asking what I could do differently to please her, or to make her understand how she had hurt me. Over time, I learned that there was nothing that I could do to change my mother. The only thing that I could change was myself. And to protect my own mental health and self worth, the best decision for me was to cut off contact altogether. It’s still painful not to talk to my mom, and I wish that things were different. But I’m happier without the constant reminders that I’m the least favourite child and that I’ll never be enough. 

If you’ve had a similar experience, with a mom who cuts you apart more often than not, I’m here to tell you that you don’t owe her anything. Certainly not your life.

Altaira Northe is a writer who works and lives in Vancouver, B.C. with her partner and her two cats. She loves hiking in the mountains and swimming in the ocean. She spends her time writing, running events that bring people together, and working to heal her intergenerational trauma. She can be found on all social channels @ctrlaltaira.