Why I Hate Mother’s Day

heartbreakLet me preface this blog by saying that I am lucky to know a lot of amazing women who are wonderful mothers – my step-mom, my sisters, my mother-in-law, my sister-in-law, and several of my friends. This blog isn’t about the women in the world who are amazing mothers.

This blog is about women like my biological mother. Women who either never intended or wanted to have children, but through some life circumstance had at least one anyway. Women who force their resentment of having these children onto those same children. Women who emotionally and physically abuse the children they were forced to have because they blame those children for even having been born.

The weeks leading up to mother’s day are always painful for me. I’m bombarded by messages telling me that all mothers are wonderful, all mothers are amazing and all mothers should be loved, worshiped and cared for as the amazing angels they all are.

Except that they aren’t. Not all of them, anyway. Just by giving birth to another human being does not make a woman an amazing, wonderful mother. There are lots of horrible, mean, abusive moms out there. For those of us who were the children to those types of mothers, all these mother’s day messages are painful reminders of what we didn’t have in our childhood, that so others many did.

I see what a fantastic mom my step-mom is to her daughters. I’m grateful that she has accepted me into her fold and sees me as one of her own, but it doesn’t erase the many years of abuse I had to endure at the hands of my own mother. Most of the abuse from my mother was emotional, although it did get physical once.

When I was about 10, my mother was once again reminding me how I would never amount to anything in my life, that I’d never be as good or as smart as her, and she decided I should learn how to smoke cigarettes. She physically pinned me down to the couch and tried to force a lit cigarette into my mouth. I refused and struggled to get away and her response to that was to burn me with the cigarette, repeatedly.

Thankfully my grandmother came home and intervened, and kicked my mom out of our apartment. I still remember my mother screaming back up at the apartment for the next several hours, until her voice was hoarse. Only once she’d calmed down did my grandmother let her back in, while I hid in my room.

These are the kinds of memories that well up in me around Mother’s Day. So I’m sorry that I struggle to wish the women in my life, that are good mothers, a “Happy Mother’s Day,” but you can see why it’s such a painful thing for me.

This is why I hate Mother’s Day.

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