One woman’s story of cutting the ties that bind.
I knew from a young age that my mother and I would never have the kind of connection that most of my friends had with their mothers: the breezy, spontaneous shopping trips, the lunch dates or the giggle-filled chats about boys. My mother would never be the Lorelai to my Rory Gilmore, and most of the time I was okay with that. All I ever wanted was for her to be what I believed every mother should be: her daughter’s biggest fan.
I was about 15 when the shift in our relationship began. My mother had always been a bit of a control freak, but her need for domination grew as I asserted my independence. Never mind that I was a chaste, honour-roll student who came straight home every day after school. Out of the blue, I would be grounded for getting a rare mediocre grade or not cleaning my bathroom on schedule. I was the eldest child — and a girl. My two younger brothers escaped the daily scrutiny and punishments.
But it wasn’t until I was in my first year of university that my home life went off the rails. My mother had a nervous breakdown. Her behaviour changed from simply nitpicky to delusional. After months of her escalating irrational behaviour — starting with 3 a.m. family meetings in which I’d be whacked on the head with a broom if I dozed off and culminating in her complete fear of leaving the house — my dad asked me to help him take care of the situation.
Read about Rossdale's need for a mother on the next page ...
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