Mom is a bitch. I suppose that makes me bitch adjacent. If I were being honest, my mother had her good sides. The same way a disproportionate face might have a perfect left or right side, however, when the person who owns the aforementioned face looks into a mirror or camera, the imperfections are glaringly obvious. The issue is that Mother refused to look in the mirror. She’d rather shatter it and blame it for breaking. She would do all of this while crying about not being able to see herself. I ran away from her the moment I got a chance.
I was twenty-three when I moved across state lines. For the first six months, it was absolute bliss. I ate whatever I wanted, stayed up late, and stayed out even later. My mother had strict rules about being outside. She liked to see me and make sure I was okay. I thought it was because she had an abnormal addiction to true crime shows. Away from her clutches, I could be anyone I wanted. I began to reinvent myself. I chopped off my hair, wore baggier clothes, and pierced or tattooed everything I could. I had just come back from a tattoo appointment when the calls started. My back stung beneath the Saniderm covering. It hurt to reach into my back pocket, grab the vibrating phone, and slap the green button with my thumb.
“Hello?” I asked, flinging my keys onto the table by the door.
“Iris, why haven’t you called me?” Mother asked.
I sighed. “Mom, I’m just coming back from an appointment. I can’t call.”
“You need to call me. I gave you life.” She said.
I stifled a growl. This was how it always went with Mother. She liked to blame me for being born. I didn’t understand how someone who made a choice to bring me to Earth could also decide it was my duty to make up for it until either she died or I did. At the rate we were going, I should’ve been preparing my tombstone.
“What do you need, Mom?” I asked.
“Excuse me?” she asked.
I didn’t say anything. I just listened to her disapproving breaths through the receiver. After a while, she launched into her latest work drama. Mother was the head of a tax-preparation agency that had hit a million dollars last year. Business had continued to boom, and Mother felt like she had hit her peak. She called to revel in her successes and didn’t bat an eye when I kept up a steady stream of lackluster “mmhmms.” After the one-sided conversation dragged on for an hour, I extricated myself.
“Mom, I’ve got to go. My boss is calling me about a project he needs done.” I said, lying.
“Oh, okay. Well, I’ll call again later.” She said.
“I’ll probably be busy. I’ll be working all night.” I said.
“I can keep you company while you work.” She said.
“Mom — “
“I have to go. I have another client. I’ll call you promptly at seven. Make sure you pick up the phone.”
The phone disconnected, and I resisted the urge to toss it full-send into the wall. I had just gotten an upgrade, and I didn’t want to explain that to my boss. I didn’t know at the time that this occurrence would be the demise of my peaceful new existence. Mother began calling twice a day, every day. If I didn’t answer on the first ring, I could expect a stream of insults for the first few minutes. She would tell me how “she gave me life” and “what could possibly be more important than her?” It would’ve been funny if she were joking. She wasn’t. She called once at lunch and once at dinner. These phone calls became the bane of my existence.
So much so that each day, just before twelve thirty or seven, I had a severe panic attack. The kind that made me bunch into a wall as if I were trying to become part of it. My vision tunneled, my hands shook, and I cried into my elbow until the phone rang. After that, I would dissociate for an hour until she hung up. Then I would have another panic attack and continue about my day. After three months, I began scheduling things around her. Friends would invite me for dinner, and I would say it had to be after eight. Co-workers invited me out for lunch, and I would decline. Not out of respect, but out of fear. No one can tear a girl down like her mother.
The insults she threw were often personal and straight out of my bag of insecurities. I knew my mother liked to have control over the things she loved. I told myself, “She loves me and wants to talk.” However, we only ever talked about her. I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. If I tried to talk about my day, she would redirect the conversation to herself. Eventually, I just stopped trying and retreated into my mind, like I did when I was young. After six months of this torment, the people closest to me became aware.
“Iris?” my boss asked.
I jumped out of my skin at my desk and spilled my coffee all over the manuscript I’d been reading. I sighed and put my face into my hands for a few seconds before answering.
I asked, standing to clean up my mess.
“What on earth is going on with you?” She asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not acting like yourself. You’re jumpy, snappy, and you look like you’ve seen a ghost every day after lunch.” She asked.
Prism wasn’t just my boss. She was my best friend, but no one in the office knew because they’d think I’d gotten the assistant editor job via nepotism. We became friends after she secured the role. Usually, I tell her everything. However, no one knew about the calls with my mother because I was ashamed.
“I’ve got a lot happening right now. I’m distracted.” I said.
Prism tilted her head to one side and frowned.
This job and that apartment you’ve got are your life. What’s actually going on?” she asked.
I grabbed the coffee-saturated papers and deposited them in the trash. Opening my desk, I pulled the extra copy from my manuscript drawer and tried to pick up where I left off. Prism slapped the thick stack from my hand and sat down to glare at me.
“Iris Valerie Price!” she said.
“You’re invoking my government? We never do that.” I said.
“I am now. Spill.”
I sighed and placed my palms face down on my desk. Most people would see the gesture and ignore it. When Prism saw it, her features softened, and her voice cooed.
“Is it your mom?” she asked.
I nodded.
“What is it, sweety?” She asked.
Before I could say anything, I burst into tears. Prism swiftly stood up and pulled all the curtains from my little glass box. When she was sure no one could see, she pulled her chair behind my desk and grabbed my face in her warm hands.
“Oh, my goodness. What has that witch done now?” she asked.
I unleashed the turmoil that had become a part of my daily life on her. I told her about each conversation and mom’s insistent ownership and monopoly of my time.
“That’s why you’ve been canceling dinners and lunches out.” She said, piecing together my dodgy behavior from the last few months.
I nodded as she handed me a tissue. I dabbed beneath my eyes, but the tears wouldn’t stop.
“Baby girl, you’ve got to tell her to fuck off. Look at you. You’re a mess.” She said.
I shook my head.
“I can’t do that. She’s my mom.” I said.
Prism remained plain-faced, except for the clinch in her jaw. She hated my mother more than anyone else in my life. She’d been the one to pick up the pieces after every hurtful conversation or judgmental text message. She knew every childhood bruise or scar from every beating I had ever received. She sucked in a lungful of air and exhaled slowly. I flinched, wondering when she would get sick of me. When she had finished centering herself, she stared into my eyes. Her powerful cobalt glare froze me in place.
“Just because she’s your mother doesn’t mean she gets to treat you like this. You haven’t had a panic attack since you moved here, Iris. She’s setting you back.” She said.
I knew she was right. When I moved into my apartment, it was the first time since I was thirteen that I’d gotten a full night’s sleep. I stayed up with nightmares of my mother picking me up and swallowing me. I would sit in her belly and scream, but then she would scream, and her voice would eclipse mine. I died a painful death night after night. These days, the dreams had returned, and I wasn’t sleeping.
I was jittery with exhaustion, angry with pent-up rage, and drained from the verbal massacres I experienced twice a day. Yet still, I loved her and didn’t want her disapproval, but that didn’t hold a candle to how much I didn’t want her rage. I would rather suffer silently for two hours each day than deal with the permanent disdain she would show me if I halted the phone calls. Prism knew that, which made her hate my mother even more.
“Well, at least do me one favor.” She said.
I looked up at her with bleary vision. I couldn’t stop crying. Six months of pent-up rage and despair had settled in my chest. Crying was the only catharsis I was going to get.
“This is a card for my therapist. Her name is Meredith Alston, and she specializes in complex mother-daughter trauma. If you can’t make the problem stop, at least you can talk about it.” She said.
I took the card, and Prism wrapped me in her arms. She pressed her lips to the side of my forehead and squeezed me tight.
“I hate her.” She said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”
Meredith Alston’s office smelled like eucalyptus and had worn leather. When I called her, she told me she was expecting me. I wondered if Prism told her anything about why I was coming in. The thought that she knew already made me both anxious and relieved. Her office was in downtown Baltimore, in a small brick building. As I approached the door, I saw the names of multiple people with doctorate degrees on mid-sized gold plaques.
She was on the second floor, so I rode the elevator up in disquieted silence. The ding and the opening of the doors startled me so much that I blenched backwards into the wall and scrambled to get my bearings before the doors closed. I squeezed by, getting my scarf snagged for a half-second before turning to find a tall woman with bright green eyes watching me. The corners of her mouth were slightly upturned, and her eyes said nothing except “hello,” yet still I felt like a Neanderthal. Had she seen the entire ordeal? I hoped not. God, I hoped not.
“You must be Iris. I’m Meredith.” She said.
I walked up to her and shook her hand. Her grip was firm, and her skin was warm but sticky with lotion. At least, I hoped it was lotion.
“Come on in,” she said, opening a small door to the left of her. I sat down on a couch, and my mouth was slack when she sat down next to me.
“Is this too close?” she asked.
I shook my head and folded my hands in my lap.
“So, what brings you in today?” she asked.
I squinted.
“I was hoping that Prism would’ve told you.” I said.
Meredith laughed. “Prism only told me that she had a friend who needed my services and asked if I could make space on my roster. It’s up to you to tell me what’s going on.” She said.
A lump appeared in my throat. It was cumbersome enough to tell Prism about what I was going through. I did not want to rehash the story for this PhD stranger. I sighed and began to pick my thumbs. Meredith nodded and stood up. She went to her desk and pulled out a small cube.
“Here.” She said, tossing the cube to me. I caught it and turned it this way and that to examine it. I had seen one before. It was a fidget cube. There were all kinds of different knobs, twisters, and clickers. My fingers quickly adjusted to flicking the mechanisms. I savored the various sounds as my anxiety diminished. I sighed.
“Thank you,” I said. She nodded, and then I told her about my mother. Meredith didn’t interrupt or take notes. She kept eye contact with me at intervals of five seconds and adjusted her positioning every few moments. When I was finished rambling, she nodded.
“Okay. First off, I want to thank you for sharing. I know that must’ve been hard.” She said. She then stood up and walked to her desk. She returned with a black rectangle and placed it gently in my hands. I opened the cover of the Moleskine journal and felt the sleek, undyed pages. I couldn’t remember when I last purchased one. “I want you to dedicate an hour each day to writing your feelings down. Specifically, the hour before your mother calls.” She said.
I nodded.
“Great,” she said. “How do you feel about two sessions a week to start?”
I shrugged. I didn’t know how many sessions I would need. Two didn’t feel like enough, but Meredith was the professional. I was just some chick with mommy issues. We decided on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I would have her number if there was a crisis. I stood up and headed toward the door, but stuttered when I remembered the cube. I turned around and lifted it into the air.
“Can I keep this?” I asked.
She grinned and nodded. “Of course, I’ve got a drawer full of them.”
“Thank you.” I said that and pulled the door open.
Leaving Meredith’s office, I felt dramatic. The situation with my mother wasn’t that bad. I would write my feelings in the journal and come back. The week seemed to crawl the way a baby does when it’s close to walking. It was awkward and exhausting. Mother’s calls continued to interrupt my life. I wrote in my journal like Meredith told me to. The writing helped me calm down. I could complete my duties at work without flinching whenever someone opened the door or said my name.
I had panic attacks after work, but not during. When Thursday arrived, I was surprised to see that the journal had filled up quickly. I was halfway through it, and I wondered if that meant I was crazy. Would Meredith see this and suggest more aggressive treatment? What would she think of me? Maybe I should stop writing altogether. Meredith’s office smelled like lavender when I walked in. She sat on the couch, and I sat next to her, cradling a pillow and the Moleskine journal.
“How has the week been?” She asked.
“The journaling helps. I was able to get work done.” I said.
She nodded. “That’s good! I wanted to give you somewhere to put your thoughts. I figured you could read me some of the things you wrote, and we can discuss them.” She said.
I smiled lightly. That was a great strategy. She must’ve noticed how hard it was for me to talk openly about my mother last time. However, if I’ve already written my feelings down, reading it wouldn’t be that hard. I opened it up and began to read my first few entries. Reading my thoughts aloud made me feel ungrateful. At least I had a mother who called me, even if she only talked about herself. What right did I have to feel frustrated and angry with her? She was my mother. She was allowed to walk over me. I owed her everything. This is what I tell Meredith. She cocked her head to one side as I spoke.
“Why do you think you owe her everything?” She asked.
“She gave birth to me. She struggled with me when my father wasn’t there. She had to be both Mom and Dad.” I said.
Meredith nodded and crossed her fingers.
“So then, you were conscious when your mother and father consummated their love?” She asked.
I wrinkled my nose at the thought.
“Of course not. I wasn’t even a bundle of cells yet.” I said.
“So then, you were the reason your father left?” She asked.
I shrugged.
“No, Mom said he was decent when she was pregnant. It was after I was born that he started to flake out. So, maybe. I could be.” I said.
“So, you had enough sense back then to know that your father was “flaking,” as you put it?”
“I was just a baby. I was probably more concerned with where my next bottle was coming from.”
Meredith stared at me for a few moments with her eyebrows raised. The realization hit me like a ton of bricks.
“I was just a baby,” I said.
She nodded.
“I see this a lot. Parents like to put blame on their children for being born when, in fact, you didn’t ask to be here. Your mother made a choice to have you. She knew the consequences of having sex with a man and did it anyway. How could her decision be your fault?”
I cradled the pillow closer to my chest and took a deep breath. I had never thought of it that way, but how could I? Mother had been shoving guilt down my throat since I was old enough to chew. She always used her sacrifices like a knife. I felt responsible for making her life worthwhile because of how much she gave up for me.
“Why do parents do that?” I asked.
Meredith shrugged.
“It could be for a lot of reasons. Parents who aren’t ready to become parents see a child as property because of all they’ve given up. They sometimes use the child as an excuse for why they couldn’t achieve their dreams, but that’s a cop out. If they really wanted to, they would’ve figured it out.” She said.
I replayed the moments my mother told me she delayed college, stopped pursuing her dreams, and ruined her relationship with her mother for me.
“So, I don’t owe her anything?” I asked.
Meredith gave me a “sort of” motion with her fingers.
“If you feel like she’s given you respect, you owe her the same respect. If not, then no. You owe her nothing. If anything, you owe yourself for enduring that kind of treatment while living under her roof. Speaking of living under her roof, what was your childhood like?” She asked.
I spewed. I told Meredith about the millions of beatings I had received. I told her how I often had to hide bloodied lips, black eyes, and scars from teachers. I recalled one specific memory where I had to lie about a mark she’d left on my arm after bludgeoning me with a stiletto. Meredith winced as the stories became more gruesome. I told her about the emotional manipulation and my mother’s tendencies to shelter me.
“She didn’t want to deal with anything, ever. So, to make her life easier, she refused to let me experience or do anything. I didn’t learn how to do my own laundry until I was twenty. When I got my period, I had to ask the older girls at the back of my bus how to take care of myself. I got blood on the toilet seat for a year before I finally figured it out.” I said.
“So, you raised yourself?” Meredith asked.
I nodded.
“So let me ask you a question. What did your mother do for you growing up? What do you feel like you owe her for?” She asked.
“The roof over my head, the food in my belly, the clothes, and everything else she had to do.”
“You mean keeping you alive? She’s supposed to do that. That’s her job as a parent.”
“Yeah, but she could’ve been abusive.” I said.
Meredith laughed and shook her head.
“She could’ve been abusive. Sure, but if she were, she would have her parental rights stripped away because you’re not supposed to abuse your child. Not to mention, most parents don’t beat their children with stilettos. I’d call that abuse.” She said.
I sat there, thinking about it. Meredith asked me another question.
“Did you get rewarded for getting good grades or doing chores?”
I shook my head.
“Why not?” She asked.
“My mother said that’s my job. That’s what I’m supposed to do as a child. It’s my only obligation.” I said.
Meredith nodded.
“So, if we’ve established that you didn’t ask to be born but your mother had sexual relations and brought a child into the world, don’t you think it’s her job as your mother to take care of you and make sure you see the age of eighteen?” She asked.
Again, I had never thought of it that way. I nodded.
“Survival is not a life, Iris. Survival is what we are all wired to do. Your mother keeping you alive was not a gift. She didn’t give you any of the skills necessary to be a functioning adult, yet she wants all this praise. Every parent knows that parenting is a thankless job. You are lucky to have a child who is appreciative. Most of them don’t realize how much you’ve done until they’re older. However, we don’t expect that. We hope for it, but we don’t put that pressure on our kids. We accept the consequences of our actions. You are not responsible for our happiness. We are.” She said.
Somewhere inside me, something broke. A twenty-three-year-old glass ceiling shattered and rained shards down on my head.
“So, my mother did nothing?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t say she did nothing. I would say she did the bare minimum. If you were in a relationship and your partner didn’t cheat on you but they never listened to you, talked badly about your body, and spent all their free time away from you, what would you do?” She asked.
“I would break up with them.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s not what a partner should do. A partner should be loving, attentive, and kind. Not cheating on me is great, but I would hope you wouldn’t cheat on me since you agreed to be with me.” I said.
Meredith grinned and crossed her arms as the realization pummeled me into the ground.
“My mom is an abusive girlfriend.” I said.
Meredith laughed lightly but nodded.
“Yes. If your mother exhibited the same characteristics in a romantic relationship, she would be alone. Why does she get to behave this way and keep you under her thumb? I want you to think about that until our next session.” She said.
Rage swallowed me whole. From Thursday to Tuesday, I found myself ripping the pages in my journal from pressing too hard. When my mother called, I let the phone ring longer than necessary before answering. When she berated me, I put the phone down and walked around my house, flipping birds at the phone whenever she said something specifically hurtful. On Tuesday, I sat without my emotional support pillow and read from my journal. Meredith took notice of the torn pages.
“What happened there?” She asked.
“I pressed too hard.” I said.
“Why?”
“I was pissed.”
“Pissed at what?”
“She’s such a bitch!” I said, exploding. “She didn’t even do anything for me! She never did! I’ve spent so many years trying to make her proud of me, and all she ever did was make me feel like garbage. Not to mention, she takes all this credit for me being an editor when she didn’t even know that I liked to write until a few years ago! She’s the worst, and I’m tired of putting up with her crap!”
I was yelling, but Meredith didn’t care. In fact, she seemed proud. For the next few sessions, Meredith and I explored my childhood in more depth. I told her about the last time I kept a journal.
“Mom found it and read a remix to a song I did where I called her out for being cold and emotionally unavailable. Do you know what she did? She stopped talking to me for months. She completely shut down on me. She even called me a bitch.” I said.
Meredith nodded and handed me tissues when I started to cry.
“I was a great kid. I never did anything, and if I did, it was because I was struggling. She never asked me how I was doing. She never asked me if I was okay. She barely ever said hi to me when she walked in the door. It got so bad that when I heard her keys, I would run to my room and pretend to be asleep.”
Before I could count the days, I had been in therapy for six months. Meredith and I sifted through everything from age nine up to the present day. On Monday, June 20, 2023, I took the day off. It was my birthday, and I needed the break. I spent the morning writing in my journal and made plans to bake myself a cake. Friends and co-workers alike sent me messages wishing me a happy birthday. I grinned at the messages and checked the time. It was twelve thirty, and mom’s call came like clockwork. I answered just before the call declined and waited.
“You’re taking much too long to answer the phone. You need to answer me when I’m calling you. I’m a busy woman. I could be like those other parents who don’t call. Anyhow, guess what Janice in the office did today — ”
Then she was off talking about her job, her hair appointment, her nails, and her new car. I stood against the wall with my head in my hands for ten minutes, listening to her whir on about herself. Finally, when I was brimming with rage, I cut her off.
“Mom. Mom. Mother!” I said, yelling.
She quieted herself for half a second in shock.
“Don’t interrupt me when I’m — ”
“Today is my birthday.” I said.
“What?”
“Today. Is my. birthday?” I said.
“Oh, happy birthday.” She said. “You should’ve told me earlier. I would’ve sent you a card or something.” She said.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“I said you should’ve reminded me.”
“Don’t say it again! I heard you. I just can’t believe you’re blaming me for not remembering what day you gave birth to me.” I said.
“I am a lot of things, not just your mother. I have more important matters to tend to.”
“More important? Your booming, million-dollar business is more important than the only child you gave birth to?I asked in disbelief.
“Watch the way you’re speaking to me. I’m still your mother. I don’t care how old you think you are.” She said.
“That’s enough. That is enough! I have had it with you! You are selfish, entitled, and immature! I can’t even believe you!”
“Iris — “
“No, mother! I am speaking!” I said. “You don’t remember my birthday. You take up all my time; do you have any idea what I’ve missed out on because of you this year? Business parties, luncheons, get-togethers, and movie nights. I missed all this just to sit and listen to you talk about yourself for an hour, and you can’t even remember my birthday.”I asked.
The phone was silent for a while. I simmered down. Perhaps I could get through to her. Perhaps all it would take was me pointing out that she was being selfish. Maybe she didn’t notice her behavior was incorrect. Perhaps she needed redirection. I held my breath.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you. It must be that time of the month. I’ll call you again tomorrow. Don’t be so emotional. No one likes a complainer.” She said, then the line went dead.
I slid down the wall in defeat and placed my head in my hands. Sweltering tears cut rivers down my cheeks. My next session wasn’t until the morning, but I couldn’t wait. I called Meredith.
She asked.
“She’s never going to change. She’s never going to change.” I said, sobbing.
“Deep breaths. In and out. Tell me what happened.” Meredith said.
I did as I was told and breathed in and out of it with her before recounting the entire story. When I was done, she sighed.
“Happy Birthday, Iris.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“I think you know what you have to do.” She said.
I did, and I was dreading it.
“It’s going to be the hardest thing you’ve ever done. If I were you, I’d call a friend and have them sit with you.” She said.
“Should I send her a text message before I do it?” I asked.
“Not if you don’t want to. Sometimes, with narcissists, it’s best to never give them an explanation. The last thing I would want is for her to flip things on you and set you back. It might be best to cut it cold turkey, but you know your strength. What do you think you should do?” She asked.
We hung up, and I called Prism. She was in the car before I could finish my sentence. When she knocked on the door, I was a shell of myself. I hadn’t stopped crying since Meredith and I ended our call. Prism wrapped me in her arms and walked me backwards into the house. She sat with me while I called my phone company.
It didn’t take much to get my number changed. When that was finished, I sat in a bean bag with Prism holding me. I stared at my mother’s contact and pressed a few buttons until my phone asked me to confirm I was blocking her. My thumb trembled over the screen as my chest caved in. A million thoughts rushed through my head. Who will I have? Who will I run to when I need something? What will I do if I need to leave my apartment? What if I lose my job? I went on like that for five minutes before Prism lightly grabbed my face.
“She never did anything for you that you couldn’t do by yourself. Not to mention, you’re not by yourself. We’ll figure it out.” She said.
I nodded and sighed, bringing my finger down. I deleted her contact and watched as it went gray. I expected a sense of impending doom, terror, or guilt, but all I felt was relief. I checked the clock. It was twelve thirty on the dot. My phone stayed silent. Suddenly, I began to laugh. I laughed so hard that Prism began laughing with me. We laughed so hard that we were flung over the beanbag, clutching our stomachs. When we finished guffawing, she held me and squeezed tightly.
“Lunch?” She asked.
I nodded.
“Lunch.”
