Breathing Room

I can’t take it anymore. I am 30 years old, and my mother has committed credit card fraud. I looked over the pages of my credit card bill again – a balance of $7,582.90. I did not even realize that I did not have custody of my card; my mom did.

So I called her. “Why do I have a balance of $7,582.90 on my Chase card, the card that you have for some reason?”

“I had no choice. I was low on money, and I needed to do repairs around the house?”

“What do you mean you had no choice?! You never even asked for permission.”

“I have so many problems. You don’t understand. Everything around here goes wrong. Besides I’m your mother. I have the right to use your card. I don’t need your permission.”

“That’s not what state law says. It says I can file a police report, though,” I replied.

“After everything I have done for you!“

“You have done enough damage.”

“No! I need my card. How else do you expect me to pay for anything?”

“It’s not your card.”

Then she just hung up. This was far from the first time my mother used me for my financial resources. When I was in the sixth grade, I won a $100 savings bond for winning a spelling bee, and my mother cashed it immediately. My mom took me to the bank with her. I listened to the bank teller ask her if she really wanted to cash it in because if the bond is not mature, she wouldn’t get $100 but rather $75. Mom didn’t hesitate, though. Any amount of money would do. She needed to pay the electricity and fell short of the balance due. 

It was always just my mom and I. Dad lived with us, too. However, his bipolar disorder and alcoholism rendered him incapable of participating in family matters. At best, it meant making important household decisions like how will we pay rent or how will we’ll get the car repaired without his help or input. The worst case scenarios meant living in fear of his manic episodes with accompanying religious delusions, and it was no easy task to get him hospitalized in the psych ward at the VA hospital. My parents yelled at each other on a daily basis. They argued about everything ranging from dad’s lack of responsibility regarding his mental health issues to money to suspected infidelity. Mom had no trust in dad, so I had to be mom’s rock and act as her surrogate spouse, therapist, best friend. This required me to be strong for her even as a small child; otherwise, there would be hell to pay. I still have flashbacks when she screamed at me over a B+ on a math quiz in the third grade and how I’ll never amount to anything because of it. 

It wasn’t always unpleasant being around her. Sometimes when she was fighting with my dad, she’d pull me out of school, and we’d take a day trip to Miracle Springs, a nearby resort town known for its hot springs and bath houses, and stroll around its historical district. She even held my hand as we walked down the main street. I wish the our lives could always have been that serene and that dad could have been well enough to have joined us.

Despite having some happy memories, being the daughter of a woman in an irreparable marriage has an astronomical cost. I am the giver, and she is the taker. Mom, as the taker, is insatiable like a hungry ghost. When I was a child, I did everything in my power to please her, to get her approval. She thought her domineering parenting style would make me successful in life – Ivy League education, professional school, a career as a doctor or a lawyer. No other profession would be acceptable. Then I could payroll her life easily.

Except none of these things ended up happening. I cracked under the pressure. In high school, my grades started to fall because I was too anxious about failure, in this context, meaning an A-. Mom kept piling weight upon weight on my back, and I could no longer carry these expectations. When my dad died from colon cancer, and the VA reduced accordingly the pension we relied on, she became only more desperate and controlling. She thought it was the only way to guarantee success.

I ended up graduating from an unremarkable state school with a degree in social work, a major that did not come with the high-pressure baggage of pre-med or pre-law. I currently work for a psychiatric hospital, handling its intensive outpatient program. It’s not the job of my dreams. I find it stressful, but it’s enough for me to financially support myself. I’m stuck dealing with PTSD, ADHD, generalized anxiety disorder, and bipolar disorder, a legacy from dad. I see a psychiatrist once a month for medication management, but I primarily rely on my therapist, whom I’ve been seeing twice a week for the past three four years. I dread discussing the credit card fraud with her.

“So, uh, mom committed over $7,000 of credit card fraud my card,” I sigh.

“Did you file a police report yet?” she asks.

“I told her I would, but I haven’t yet.”

“You need to file a police report and an FTC report. This is a literal crime.”

“This is going to be such a pain. What if I can’t go through with it?”

“Do you want your mother to continue to take advantage of you?”

“No. I know now that our relationship is unhealthy and co-dependent,” I say, “but she’ll retaliate. She always does. I wish she would stop using me like this. I am so angry right now.”

“You have every right to be angry. Your mom violated your boundaries, so your anger is a reaction to that transgression. I recommend you file a report to the FTC and a police report.”

“I’m scared. I’ve never stood up to her before.”

“It’s okay to be scared, but if you don’t want her to continue disregarding your boundaries, this is something you will need to do. You can demonstrate to her that you can enforce your limits. What happened since last session when you said you wanted to escape from her abuse?”

“I still feel the same way, but she’s still my mom. Doesn’t that count for something? I’m so confused.”

“A mother is a parent who nurtures and loves her child. From what you’ve been telling me, she manipulates and abuses you without remorse. If you were a mother, is that something you would do?”

“Not at all.”

 “It’s okay to mourn the fact that you don’t have a mother who gives you unconditional love. You deserve better, and I’m sorry that you have to go through this at all.”

I was raised to believe that even when mom was wrong, she was still somehow right. I still struggle, despite these years of therapy sessions, with the idea that I have the power to stop her from negatively interfering with my life. It didn’t take me long to grow accustomed to the black cloud hovering over me whenever mom demanded money or that I drop what I’m doing to solve a problem that she couldn’t handle herself. However, my therapist is right. 

“Mothers shouldn’t do things like this to their children. They shouldn’t treat them like a resource that is meant to be used up,” I say.

“Used up? Is that how you feel?”

“Yeah, I really do.”

I filed both reports. Because mom charged over $7,000 in less than a six-month period, her crime is a class-D felony. She already has a record of a class-D felony shoplifting - stealing around $250 worth of clothes from a department store, so the judge does not give her a lot of grace when she is found guilty. She gets three years in prison plus an $8,000 fine. Even at this point, she refuses to show any contrition. She is taken to the North Central Unit, and although I’m too intimidated to visit her in person, I’m willing to talk to her over the phone. The Inmate Calling System will allow calls up to 15 minutes at this facility. I won’t need that that long, I think. In fact, it’ll be better if I have less time. I verified her availability and waited for her to initialize the call.

“You ruined my reputation,” my mother says, “You made me look bad. This is all your fault.”

“You made yourself look bad, and you know it. You were the one who committed a serious crime,” I reply.

“I disown you. You’re worthless to me.”

“Saying that only works for families with large estates and a big inheritance on the line. You have nothing.” I hate losing my composure and giving mom the drama she craves. This is not good.

“I deserve respect.”

“Wait. Just disregard what I just said. I didn’t mean it, but I called you for one reason: to tell you that I will not allow you to take advantage of -”

“I never took advantage of you! Not even once.”

“You will not take advantage of me anymore.”

“See? You don’t respect me! Do you think I care? I’m better off without you. I have no daughter. I should have never done anything for you.”

“Okay. Whatever you say.” I hang up. 

I had hoped this moment would feel empowering and offer some much-needed closure, but I now feel deflated. Mom still finds a way to hurt me yet again and blames me for her present predicament. I’m now convinced she has no conscience whatsoever. Even so, despite her seething hatred, there is still a part of me wishes we could have had a heartfelt reconciliation like in the movies. I feel robbed of a chance to hear mom apologize and show some sign that she understands that what she did was wrong and that she’ll never do it again. I suppose this is what my therapist means by having to mourn the fact that I never had a loving mother. I try to settle myself down with meditation. Not that I’m good at it. I feel as though am just sitting on my meditation cushion until my legs go numb. Breathing in, breathing out. Why does my mom always use me? Why doesn’t she understand how much she hurts me? Why doesn’t she care about me? Why doesn't she love me? What did I do wrong? I can’t bring my focus back to my breath anymore, and I start sobbing.

At my next session, I update my therapist about the call with mom.

“I talked to mom yesterday and told her that I won’t let her take advantage of me again, I say.

“That’s good,” my therapist says, "I'm proud of you.”

“Well, it doesn’t feel very good. I thought I was going to get closure for the credit card fraud, for everything.”

“You can’t control her reaction. You can only control what you do. You chose to hold her accountable, and you get to spend the rest of your life healing from this. Your mom, on the other hand, will never even admit there’s anything wrong with her. She’ll never get help and get well. That is her karma.”

“Something feels wrong. This isn’t what I expected. This isn’t what I wanted.” I break down in tears. For the next few minutes, I can’t even speak. 

“I’m so sorry. You have a lot to process,” she says.

“I don’t even know what I’m going to do for Thanksgiving,” I say. “Then I'll have to deal with Christmas.”

“You’re free to do whatever you want. Just because you’re not having a traditional holiday celebration, it doesn’t mean that you can’t be grateful for the things you do have. At a time like this, I think it’s important to give yourself some breathing room . You really need it.”

I may have held my mom accountable for her actions and emancipated myself from her exploitation, but I feel so isolated. Friends and co-workers have their own relatives to see over the holidays, and frankly, I am jealous that they belong to relatively healthy families free from severe dysfunction. Nonetheless, I force myself to cook myself Thanksgiving dinner. I bake a vegetarian turkey roast, and prepare stuffing, and roast some carrots, potatoes, and brussel sprouts. After I eat, I watch a movie in an attempt to drive away the boredom and loneliness. The holidays were never idyllic or nostalgic for me, so I can’t bring myself to watch those cheesy Hallmark Christmas films that so many of my friends like. I watch Mean Girls instead but not even that cheers me up. I end up crying nonstop for half an hour.  Once I regain my composure, I finally realize why I haven’t felt good about what happened: my own unrealistic expectations and my lack of self-compassion. I have to accept that I won't get a happy ending with mom, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t recover. I can show myself compassion and grace, providing myself the peace I always longed for.

I try meditating again. This time, I put one hand on my heart and one hand on my belly. Breathing in, breathing out. Breathing in, I am aware that I am alone. Breathing out, I show myself compassion. Breathing in, alone. Breathing out, compassion. At first, my breathing is tight and labored, but I continue. Breathing in, alone. Breathing out, compassion. I manage to last for fifteen minutes this time, not a long time but enough for now. For the first time in ages, I feel genuinely thankful. I am grateful for the meal I ate earlier, for my therapist who supports me, for the very fact that I am breathing at all – most of all, for a chance at a better tomorrow.