Repeating the Cycle

I have spent a lot of time in thought while working on my memoir. This morning I was remembering how emotionally absent my mother was and how mentally abusive her actions and words were. I recalled a time in my life that I made excuses for her behavior. I read reference books explaining the cycle of abuse and self help books that reminded me she too came from somewhere not so pleasant. I spent years putting myself in her shoes, as a child and as a mother. I tried to believe that what she did was because she knew no different. And I continued to believe that, and excuse her behavior, for my entire life. Until now.

I know my mother was raised with a very strict mother herself. I know that perfection was the only option. I know she was told again and again that what she did and how she acted was a direct reflection on her mother. I know that she could never have reached the bar that would have been set too high. I know this, and I lived in the same moments a generation later. I feel for her. I feel sorry for what she endured. I feel sorry for the person it made her and the way she loathed herself to the point of mistreating others for comfort. I know she was a child once, a sad one. I know her story like a book, because it is written in my own.

Looking back on my traumatic childhood; the pain my own mother caused and the pain she refused to acknowledge that others put me through, I can easily see what shaped many of the obstacles I still struggle to overcome. But the thing I see clearest is that I too grew up in the same environment yet with much worse additions than she did. I too felt the wrath of a obsessive compulsive manic. I felt it so much I became it as well. However the books forgot to mention that just because it typically trickles down and repeats itself, it doesn't have to, and it didn't.

Instead of repeating the cycle, I became the mother I never had; the mother I wished I did. Though exhausting mentally and physically, I overcame the challenge of giving into behaviors my childhood created because I knew they were wrong. I put myself second, always, even when I was screaming for someone to put me first. I have spent my entire life trying to understand why such a strong willed person such as my mother was too weak to do the right thing. I no longer make excuses for her. I no longer feel sorry for where she came from. What I feel sorry for is that she couldn't find a way to sacrifice a bit of herself to make sure I never had to feel like her. I know she couldn't have liked how it felt.

I am not a perfect mom or a perfect partner. But I am not a casualty or a victim. Everyday I struggle to make it to the next day with everyone I am responsible for feeling OK. And although my closet still holds its skeletons, repeating the cycle will never be one of them.