As If I Loved Her

Dear Editor,

I highly commend Rachel Tuchman on her comprehensive article in 5TJT discussing estrangement (“Estrangement Isn’t a Trend, It’s a Last Resort,” January 23). She tackled a very sensitive, difficult topic very graciously, with great insight and understanding. However, I’d like to bring up a different perspective. Please hear me out.

I, and almost all of my contemporaries, are the children of Holocaust survivors. Our parents had been through absolutely horrific trauma and loss. Their trauma on every level was so immense, it’s still painful to put into words so many years later. And yet, they miraculously found the courage and strength to forge ahead and rebuild their lives. They valiantly built families, built schools, built communities. Our awe and admiration has no bounds. However, did we all have perfect childhoods? Were our mother/daughter relationships ideal? Did our mothers ever take parenting classes or consult with experts? Did any of them go through therapy during those years to help them heal? Did they know anything about boundaries?

And yet, not once have I ever heard of any of my contemporaries severing their relationship with their parents. I believe the imperative those days of Kibud Av v’Em was so strong, that that option would never have been considered. Over the years I have met hundreds, perhaps thousands of women in my age demographic. They have all been there for their parents, with their parents, through thick and thin.

For certain there were challenging moments. But we have always been mindful of our responsibilities. We are also aware that we are role modeling for our own children, 24/7.

Please take a look at this essay, demonstrating incredible devotion of a daughter to a very challenging mother. Are we all on her level? Probably not. But we can always aspire to reach elevated heights in Kivud Av v’Em. And may I remind you, Kibud Av v’Em is a crucial mitzvah. It is on the side of the luchos of the mitzvosbetween man and G-d. It’s not an optional mitzvah. Perhaps reading this piece will inspire us all to stretch ourselves and reach just a bit higher.

With that said, there may be times when a separation is absolutely necessary, hopefully only temporarily. With the guidance of a rav and a seasoned therapist, hopefully a new bridge can be built, renewing the connections on a healthier, stronger more wholesome foundation.

V’heshiv lev avos al banim! Shalom al Yisrael.

Miriam Liebermann MSW

This article appears in the second anthology that I had the privilege and pleasure of editing, To Fill the Sky with Stars. The book was published 10 years ago, an anthology for women in the transitional years. It’s a superb essay and deserves to be read by a greater audience. The author wishes to remain anonymous. However, she tells me that there are therapists using this article in their work trying to reconcile mothers and daughters. It’s quite powerful.

During the five years that I devotedly cared for my ailing, elderly mother: I daily brought her home a special indulgence of a bit of chocolate, so she wouldn’t feel deprived on her restricted diabetic diet.

I daily cajoled her to walk with me in the park, arms linked, to exercise her weak heart even when my schedule was so hectic that I barely had time to breathe.

I daily arranged for my children and grandchildren to call her and send pictures and videos to alleviate her loneliness.

I daily struggled to maintain a balanced life with the remaining unmarried children, living at home gently supporting their place and space. I would remind them to treat Bubby with dignity and respect even when they felt little respect coming from her, with her numerous requests being made at inopportune times.

I daily arranged for a supply of decent videos for her to watch in the afternoons in the privacy of her bedroom even though watching videos was against our value system. We and the Rav understood the need to be flexible.

I did all this “as if” I loved her, not “because” I loved her.

This was in addition to the weekly shopping for special foods and clothing to suit her aristocratic taste. I also coordinated the scheduling for her companion, the physical therapy, numerous doctor appointments, her swimming and social events, and her sheitel and pedicure appointments. Plus, the unexpected visits to the emergency room and the many extended hospital stays. Again, I did all this devotedly “as if” I loved her, not “because” I loved her.

Why didn’t I love her? I really wanted to. As an only child, I desperately wanted to love my mother and feel her love for me. I longed to bask in the warm sunny glow of feeling cherished and beloved. Instead, I spent my childhood years pondering what it was about me that was so unlovable, so unworthy of what I craved most. What was wrong with me that my mother always seemed to be displeased with me? I spent my Shabbosim plotting ways to please my mother by setting the table or generally being helpful so she would be proud of me, or at least not criticize me or minimize my accomplishments. I spent lonely and bored hours in my room, on Sundays or after school wishing she would play a game with me instead of watching television. Rather than concentrating on my schoolwork, I would sit in class, almost lost in the lethargy of my thoughts, trying to make sense of it all. I also wished I wouldn’t so often overhear her on the phone enumerating my many faults—real or imagined—to her one friend. I used to feel awful and

 hopeless. Why couldn’t I be the good daughter I so desperately longed to be? What kind of wicked soul was I born with that I could never, or so it seemed, make my mother proud of me, smile at me, and rejoice in my existence.

I don’t remember much about my childhood, as it wasn’t particularly memorable, but I remember small events that made an impression on me. I remember once, when I was five years old, my mother asking me if I would take care of her in her old age. My innocently response was, “I don’t know, I may have to take care of my own children.” She angrily replied how selfish I was! I never understood this. At age five was I supposed to be her parent? This was a story she often repeated to others to illustrate how selfish and spoiled I was as a child.

At age seven, I remember hiding in the coat closet with one of my friends and confiding in her that I wished that I had a different mother. I remember the shear shock on her face as I confessed my unhappiness. She later told me she couldn’t imagine anyone not loving their mother!

When I was twelve, my mother bought me a ruffled dress and I refused to wear. I was convinced that if SHE bought it for me it must because she wanted me to look ugly! I began shopping for my own clothing at 13. Such was my level of distrust in her. I would never dream of sharing any feelings with her.

I was a lonely child that sought the company of the neighbors and friends. I was very sociable and popular. I was the best babysitter in the city and I was never homesick in overnight camp. I volunteered for any chesed project available. Anything was better than being at home.

Frankly, I think I survived only because my father adored me. Perhaps that was part of the problem. My mother was very jealous of our relationship. I’m not sure what came first—the chicken or the egg. Did he adore me because his wife was so difficult and self-absorbed or was she so difficult because he adored me? I only saw him on Shabbos, but he made his feelings clear to me and everyone else.

It seemed that I was the “monkey in the middle” in the game between them. At least that’s how felt. If I made a kugel; my father would lavishly praise it and my mother would counterattack with how salty it was. If I washed the dishes, my father would profusely thank me, and my mother would declare how she had to wash them all over again. I could never attain that fleeting prize of a compliment or words of appreciation. It came to the point that when there was a P.T.A. meeting at school I would only tell my father, not my mother. Or when I got the lead part in the school play, I was afraid to share the news with her because of what she might say to hurt me and diminish my pleasure. To be fair, I do on occasion remember my father trying to improve his relationship with her. Thank G-d, I was blessed with a positive and resilient personality and didn’t even realize the full extent of the dysfunction until I had my own children.

I often pondered in my bed at night what made my mother who she was. Was I the only one who perceived her this way? What did other people think about her? Did they believe the nasty things she said about me or my father? She was beautiful. She could be charming when she chose to be. She had a wrinkle-free face, manicured nails, and smooth soft hands even into her old age. She could be kind to poor people. I don’t ever remember a tzedakah envelope that was returned to anywhere without even a small donation inside. She said she learned that from her father who was a big ba’al tzedakah in Europe.

She was a meticulous seamstress. When she chose to leave the comfort of her bed, she would often sew beautiful dresses for me that everyone admired. But I craved adornment for my threadbare heart in the form of kind words. I actually hated those dresses because they represented the hours I had to be measured and pinned before I could go outside and play. She was anti-social, rarely participating in community weddings or events. When she did participate, I had to stand with her during the entire wedding so she wouldn’t be alone. She seemed to childishly delight in pointing out other people’s shortcomings especially if they were overweight. And if I or others were hurt by her declarations, she would accuse us of being too sensitive. She was a mystery to me that I struggled to figure out, Sherlock Holmes style, by collecting clues to make some sense of the plot of my life.

What made her who she was? Nature or nurture? What was her childhood like? Was it bad middos or trauma that contributed to her negative personality? I will never know for certain. I always gave her the benefit of the doubt by thinking that the outbreak of World War II contributed to her stunted emotional growth even though she and her family were spared the camps. Who am I to judge? My mother’s beloved younger sister recently visited from Antwerp before my mother’s final illness. After watching my mother’s actions in our home, and noting how self-centered and self-absorbed she was, my aunt remarked how, even as the eldest daughter, my mother’s behavior had been the same back home in Poland.

At a young age, I became a keen observer of other families and other relationships. At twelve, I did my first informal research project observing what made people happy and what made some marriages work and others not. I would watch my friends relate to their mothers. I would watch their parents interact with each other. My conscience mind would photograph interactions of camaraderie, respect, and love and zoom in on these little tidbits of positive exchanges, storing them in my memory bank to be retrieved later as a template for my future family. I learned a lot that way.

At sixteen, I made a momentous decision. Adolescent children pose difficult challenges for most parents at the best of times; and so much more so if the parent/ child relationship was complex to begin with. My mother was ill-equipped to deal with my hormonal fluctuations, and I no longer had the same control over my anger that I once had. So, I decided to leave home for the remainder of my schooling to a place where there were dormitory facilities. My father was in agreement and I was off. I never got homesick.

I also made another decision. I realized I had to make a choice. I could either spend the rest of my life trying to be the good daughter my mother desired and in the process become crazy from the unhealthy demands or I could give up and concentrate on making a happy normal life for myself so that I could get married and raise a family. Doing the latter would not make my mother happy in the short term, not that I was tremendously successful at making her happy until then. But in the long term, perhaps after 120 years, my mother would be happy and have the true “nachas.” I opted for the second choice. Somehow, I intuitively felt that was what Hashem would want of me. I began to keep my mother at an emotional distance. I would be polite on the phone calls, but when I felt that she was about to criticize me or say something hurtful, I would hold the phone away from my ear and say, “uh-huh” every once in a while to assure her that I was still listening. It worked for me. I minimized my encounters with pain and yet I managed to remain respectful.

I grew emotionally, spiritually, and intellectually by leaps and bounds. I was popular and became G.O. president of my new school. I excelled in seminary and at work and married a special man with exemplary middos. All the while, I maintained a distant relationship with my mother. At age twenty-two, after the birth of my second son, I began to have pangs of guilt about my behavior to my mother. “Maybe I was just rationalizing that this was the best way? Maybe I was not fulfilling the commandment of ‘honoring my father and mother’?” I kept asking myself. So, my husband and I sought counsel with an elderly rav. His answer to me left me breathless, “Never feel bad for doing a smart thing.” I felt liberated.

After the death of my father and my mother’s first heart attack it became clear that my mother could no longer adequately care for herself. My husband · suggested that she come. live with us. I was full of trepidation. We hired a Russian companion who served as a buffer between us so I wouldn’t have to bear the brunt of her bitter and hurtful comments. It was the smartest decision we made. I was able to balance my busy family and social life with the demands of caring for an elderly parent.

At my children’s weddings, people often commented to me about how well cared-for and beautiful my mother looked since she came to live with us. Others remarked about our facial similarities, and I would smile to myself and think, “If you would only know how my life’s goal was to be the exact opposite of my mother!” I know I succeeded in some measure when my first daughter turned to me, during one of our pre-nuptial, mother-daughter heart-to-heart talks, and said, “Mommy, you knew how to be a good mother because Bubby was so difficult and selfish, so you knew what not to do, but I had such a wonderful childhood and such wonderful mothering. How will I know how to be a good mother?” What irony!

When my second daughter said to me after her engagement, “Mommy, I can’t believe how difficult your childhood with Bubby must have been and you never talked about it or complained. How did you manage not to become bitter and run such a fun household?” I was pleased that she had such a different experience.

As a teen, my third daughter’s observation as she began to notice the world outside her was, “Mommy, how did you turn out normal?! I never knew. You never told us. How could you still be so nice to her even when she still talks badly about you to others?” It wasn’t easy, let me tell you!

At twelve, my fourth daughter had a similar comment for me after Bubby had just verbally assaulted her new dress. Having escaped to the bathroom in tears, my daughter asked, “Mommy? Did Bubby say mean things to you like that when you were my age?” Little did she know!

As I was correcting one of my daughter’s compositions one evening, and I was applauding its virtues my daughter dismissed my compliments by saying, “Ma, you’re my mother! Of course, you think it’s great. I’m still not sure the teacher will like it.” I’m so glad she was able to assume that a mother had a natural blind spot for her child.

Comments like these were like a soothing salve on my bleeding wounds. It was very healing to me as I was proud of the fact that I was mature enough to not to poison my children’s view of their grandmother even while she habitually told them stories about me as a child that were simply not true. One doozie remark my mother made at my oldest son’s bar mitzvah went like this: “Thank you for telling me how special my daughter is. I give my son-in-law all the credit. My daughter was really a very spoiled child. He changed her.” Can you imagine!

This was what she said to my friends at my first simcha! I leave you to imagine the other remarks that were made to the children about me and in front of me. I wasn’t a malach. It hurt me as much as the next person. Often, I would respectfully ignore them and shoo the children to another activity. At other times I would firmly discontinue the discussion. Sometimes, I felt as if I had been brutally kicked in the stomach and it took me days to recuperate. I was determined to break the cycle. I declared war! I refused to lower myself and reciprocate with knee-jerk negative responses and become as bitter as she was. I had a goal. I would become the mother I never had. I would heal by giving and by being generous. I would heal by being positive, optimistic, and uncritical. I would heal by being elevated. I would heal by being respectful, sensitive, and empathetic to my children. I would heal by continuing to treat my mother with sensitivity and respect despite her actions. And when she came to live in our home after my father’s death I would treat her with love, as if I loved her. I would become someone I could respect. Maybe it was revenge, but whatever it was it worked. Taking care of my elderly mother in her last years became a family project of creativity and personal growth. It became a privilege, not a burden.

The battles were long and arduous. The ammunition was my Torah classes and my family’s love and support. And my armor was the rav’s guidance. I have my battle scars. I am the consummate people pleaser. I can have a bit of anxiety or difficulty sleeping when I feel someone, in some way, is unhappy with me. I sometimes worry about whether or not I unintentionally hurt someone in some way. This is a throwback to my childhood years of trying to please my mother unsuccessfully. I struggle not to need praise from the outside and to be confident from within. I also sometimes have the tendency to personalize situations. And in some obscure way I sometimes feel responsible or guilty for things that are beyond my control. These are weaknesses that I am well aware of and I have much improved on over the years.

As my mother peacefully returned her soul to her creator surrounded by her only daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren, I tried to tune into my feelings. Was I feeling guilt? No way! I knew clearly that I had nothing to feel guilty for. We treated my mother like a queen, and we extended her life by five years with our meticulous care. Was it anger? No. I had made peace with the realities. My mother parented as well as she was able. This was a challenge from the Rebono Shel HaOlam to help me grow and develop, to choose to become better not bitter.

Our children are happy and successful, thank G-d. I have everything to be. Grateful for. Was it sadness? A bit. The finality of knowing that my lifelong fantasy of a close mother /daughter relationship was dead forever. Was it a sense of loss? Yes. I was now out of a full-time job. Taking care of my mother had become a family project of creativity and bonding. But what surprised me most, when I identified it, were the feelings of love. This connection was the result of unconditional giving. The challenge of whether I could I treat my mother with love and devotion “as if” I loved her became, “because” I loved her. And you know what? I do believe that in her way, she loved me too.