Column: Mothers and daughters: one way or another, an everlasting bond

You might be aware that I’m a psychotherapist in private practice. So I’ve known hundreds of therapists over the years. And they’ve all responded with the same answer to my question: “Who’s been the most influential figure in your clients’ lives?”

Their answer? “Mothers.”

Now, it used to be that dads weren’t around so much. But now, they are. And yet, mothers still take the lead in the power-holding department.

With Mother’s Day so close, naturally I’m thinking about mine.

We did not get along.

Yet, I’m filled with compassion for her. She was one of three siblings. Her parents put money aside so that my aunt, Mom’s sister, could get her Ph.D. in psychology. My uncle was also given money so that he could go to medical school and become a psychiatrist.

No money was put aside for my mother. That’s because, as the first-born Jewish daughter, she was expected to devote her life to taking care of her parents.

The recent holiday of Passover triggered memories of my upbringing in Baltimore. Mother was in charge of the entire four-hour traditional feast, called a seder, which contains 15 steps, most of which involve various foods that she had to prepare.

I was raised in a kosher home. So, for Passover, every pot, pan, plate, knife, fork spoon, well all things that touched food, had to be removed from the kitchen and replaced with our special Passover ware. And get this ― there were separate sets ― one complete set of everything for meat dishes. And a complete set for dairy dishes.

Can you imagine the burden on Mom to do all this work? No wonder she was loudly miserable . . . and not just on Passover.

I was her sole confidante. All I remember hearing was her contempt for her life. She’d rage to me about my father or her friends or her siblings ― at anybody she felt had wronged her, which included her mother.

Mom frequently raged at me too. I can’t count the number of times I heard, “You’re such a slob,” or, “What a stupid thing to say,” or, “You’re lazy,” or, “You don’t have any friends because you’re so fat.”

Once, my husband, Bob, said to her, “Calling Saralee fat isn’t nice.” She snapped back, “I can say anything I want to MY daughter!”

Mom would also cry so very, very often. Her tears broke my heart. I became immobilized with overwhelming sadness when she’d tell me she wished she had never married my father, which, in my opinion, is not something a young child should hear.

Her despondency became mine. I used to spend the entire 6-hour drive, from home to Syracuse University, sobbing.

By the time I saw a psychiatrist, he said, “You spend every session talking about your mother’s problems.”

That was eye-opening.

He said, “You have the right to a life of your own.”

My only sibling, my older brother, was exempt from Mother’s anger as well as from hearing her sad stories. Mom used to repeat, “A son is a son till he takes on a wife. A daughter’s a daughter the rest of her life.”

So, what does that expression mean? That a male can lead an independent life. But a female should never leave her post at home.

One night, when I was in graduate school, my mother combined enough sleeping pills and bourbon to end her life.

I could have made a difference, you know.

The room in the synagogue could have held hundreds of mourners. But only a handful of people were in the vast tabernacle. One by one, she had alienated everyone. Her life was of battles and booze.

This Mother’s Day, I will get presents from my two dogs and three cats. I will spend time with my husband, now felled by dementia, but who still loves a great big hug. And I’ll think about Mom.

It’s customary, in Judaism, to light a candle on the anniversary of a loved one’s death. But this year, I’ll light a candle on Mother’s Day. Early this morning, I wrote the words that I will say:

“Mamala, my favorite flowers are begonias too.

And I also like vanilla ice cream more than chocolate.

I have the beautiful pastel painting you made of a rose bouquet. It’s on the wall above my bed.

I have wonderful memories of you teaching me how to paint, how to make sculptures out of clay, how to make carvings out of wood.

You and I were closest during these lessons. You believed in me. You encouraged me by so often telling me how talented I was.

Mother, you deserve to be so proud of your children. My principles of life are all due to you.

I remember the tears of joy streaming down your face when you saw my name on the wooden placard on the door of my very first office where I practiced psychotherapy.

My work is about helping people, Mom. People in unhappy marriages, people who cry a lot, people who regret their life choices; in other words, all people like you. They long to be loved, Mamala; they ache for it.

May you see the good you have done for me. And for others, through me.

May your goodness be honored, not just on Mother’s Day, but on all days.

So that it is truly eternal.

And everlasting indeed.”

Award-winning columnist, Saralee Perel, is a practicing psychotherapist in Marstons Mills. She can be reached at: sperel@saraleeperel.com. Her columns run the first Friday of every month.

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This article originally appeared on Cape Cod Times: Column: Mother's Day shows even painful relationships leave footprints