My Mother’s Love Came With Conditions. My Healing Does Too.

For 34 years, I believed in my mother. She had my best interest at heart when she told my 16-year-old self, 'You're gaining too much weight. Stop eating.'

So I stopped. Entirely. I passed out at the grocery store- and was punished for embarrassing her.

We were at the ATM. Mom’s face was glued to the screen when the wave hit- my vision whited out, sudden and total, like a TV cutting to static. I tapped her shoulder. ‘Mom, I can’t see you.’

She brushed me off.

The the sound went. A vacuum of silence. ‘Mom, I can’t hear you-’

‘Damn it! She wheeled around, eyes blazing. I don’t have time for your games.-

The last words I heard before my knees buckled. The floor rushed up to meet me.

When I woke, a stranger had propped me on a crate, pressing water into my hands. Across the room, my mother’s glare was sharper than the fluorescent lights.

No ‘Are you okay?’

No ‘What happened?’

Just a hissed ‘Get in the car’ and the squeak of her shoes walking away.

She drove me to a fast-food place, shoved a chicken sandwich at me, and watched as I took mechanical bites. The grease made me nauseous. Whisper-yelled at me about how I embarrassed her and how stupid I was for not eating.

By the time we got home, it was silently agreed:

We would pretend it never happened.

But my body kept the receipt.

That day I learned:

• Disappear gracefully. ( Fainting is only acceptable if no one notices.)
• Apologize for existing. (The worker’s pity was worse then Mom’s rage.)
• You’re hunger is a betrayal. (The chicken sandwich wasn’t food. It was a muzzle.)
• Be perfect by not being at all. (Invisible girls never leave crumbs.)
• Be silent because my voice matters more. (Mine was a dial tone. Hers was gospel.)

I became so quiet, even my heartbeat learned to whisper.

I clung to her every word.

Begged for scraps of love,

Paid in the currency of my own vanishing.

The contract for her love seemed simple:

• Be invisible= Be loved.
• Rebel= She plays victim.
• Win or lose, she feasted either way.

Her voice was a chisel.

I was the statue.

‘Be more like me,’ she whispered,

‘and less like you.’

Years passed.

The marble dust settled.

When I looked in the mirror,

I didn’t recognize the shape left behind.

Yesterday, I yelled at my child-

‘Get in here. NOW.’

The words weren’t even out of my mouth

before the taste of bile hit my tongue.

That was her voice.

Her rage.

Her fucking script.

I looked in the mirror,

half-expecting to see her staring back

_

but no.

Just me.

My own face twisted into a snarl I swore I’d never wear.

My child froze.

I saw it then:

The same flinch I used to hide.

The same terror I knew by heart.

I wanted to vomit.

Wanted to peel off my skin.

Wanted to scream:

‘I’m not her!

I’m not her!

I’M NOT HER!’

But the damage was done.

So I did the only thing she never would:

I knelt.

I apologized.

I held them while my hands shook.

The cycle doesn’t break clean.

Sometimes it bleeds.

At bedtime, my child asked me for an extra story. I almost said no- heard her voice in my head: ‘You’ll spoil them.’ Then I sat on the floor and read until their eyelids fluttered. ‘Again,’ they mumbled. And I did. Fuck her rules.

That night, I dreamt of her. She stood over my bed, cold black eyes looking down on me. ‘You’ll never be free of me,’ she hissed. I woke up gasping- then laughed. Because she’s right.

I carry her in my bones. In my reflexes. In ways my love still sometimes wears a snarl.

But here’s what she didn’t predict:

I’m learning to spit her out.

I’m learning to heal from her expectations.

Now, when I feel her crawling up my throat-

her words, her tone, her hunger to control-

I write it down.

sometimes its a note on my phone.

• Let my kids pick out their clothes. (Even if it’s stripes with polka dots.)
• Apologize when I yell. (Even if my throat burns with shame.)
• Eat the damn cake. (And lick the fork clean.)

Other times, it’s a conversation we’ll never have:

‘You’re only beautiful when I say so.’

“No mom, I’m beautiful inside and out, despite you.

The lists grow.

So do the imaginary arguments.

I win none of them.

But I keep writing.

Because every word is a brick.

And I’m building a house

where her voice

isn’t welcome.

My daughter found my list. ‘What’s eat the damn cake’ mean? I handed her a fork. ‘Let’s find out.’

Healing isn’t instant.

It’s a daily fight.

But unlike you’re abuser-

This is one you can win.

So tell me:

What’s your ‘damn cake?’

When will you take the first bite?

P.S. Comment your ‘damn cake’ below. I’ll go first: Mine is eating in front of her and not apologizing.