Growing up, one of my three cousins from the Midwest would fly out to California every summer to stay with us to spend time with their “Aunt Re-Re.” My mom was extremely close to her sister (who I will refer to only as “J” for reasons) throughout her teens, going so far as to live with her and her family at a certain point and act as a nanny to her children, whom she loved and adored without question. J was almost two decades older than my mom, so Aunt Re-Re was closer in age to J’s kids than she was to her sister. I’ve mentioned before that I come from an enormous Irish-Catholic family, and have lots and lots of cousins, many of whom I am lucky enough to just be getting to know now! Both of my parents were the youngest of their families; my dad by 15 and 13 years, and my mom, who had seven siblings, by 10 years. Most of my cousins were already adults with their own grown up lives by the time my brother and I came around, and the majority lived on the East Coast while we lived on the West.

These three cousins, however, I had known my whole life because of the, well, I could say tight bond, but I prefer to say toxic bond my mother and J shared. One cousin was terribly attractive and always drew a crowd whenever he came to town, one was a lovely gal who once had a boyfriend send her a fancy basket to our house that she kept in my room (where she was staying) that had these incredible candies I continued to tactfully consume (then rearrange to make it look like I hadn’t), and one was super sweet but a bit socially awkward, always smelled like Prell, and who once tried to push me off the Log Ride at Knott’s Berry Farm thinking it was a funny joke, and I became forever terrified of him until he passed away at too early an age. In today’s mental health-conscious society, which I fully support, advocate for, and champion, I find certain “therapy speak” terms are often misused or misunderstood. A trauma bond is not connecting over similar traumatic experiences, or a difficult relationship that includes a lot of drama.

A true trauma bond is one that involves intense loyalty to one’s abuser, despite any mistreatment, based on an unhealthy emotional attachment driven by the cycle of abuse that includes fear, manipulation, and sparse moments of love and kindness that convinces the victim that this time, things will be different. People get this wrong all the time, and I get it. I just wish those who do misunderstand the term know I wouldn’t wish a trauma bond on my worst enemy.

This is the bond I had with my mother, and the bond she had with her sister who, upon news of my first pregnancy, said to my mom OUT LOUD, ‘Wouldn’t it be great if she just died? Her AND the baby? Like during labor or something?” Why my mother would have ever chosen to share this with me, then insist I travel to J’s home for Thanksgiving (so she could see what an amazing grandmother my mom was – who couldn’t be bothered to attend my daughter’s birth), I’ll never know. Well, except that she felt betrayed by my decision to become a mother in the first place. She wasn’t fond of my partner at the time (and don’t worry, he was well aware. We’re no longer together, but share two amazing daughters whom we couldn’t love or be more grateful for). Oh, and this particular Thanksgiving, my boyfriend had just suffered a compound fracture to his leg, his truck had a manual transmission so he couldn’t go anywhere, and he spent Thanksgiving alone eating a Hungry Man dinner in a lonely apartment. I still have guilt over this, but my mother made big, big threats if I didn’t obey, and I believed every one of them.

Months before I had even gotten pregnant, my parents and brother had already moved across the country. My mom was impetuous and impatient. She often said, “Why should I have to wait? I want what I want and I want it WHEN I want it.” This explains why we were never in a house for longer than 6 years. She always wanted more. She was also fond of telling me I was so spoiled, I smelled, so do with that what you will. The reason they moved was because she had decided she wanted to pursue her PhD at one of the country’s best universities. And she did. She didn’t consult any of us, she just decided that’s what we were doing. I was old enough by this point not to follow, but man, did I pay for that decision. I wasn’t ready to leave California at the time, and there were things I wanted to do and accomplish that I wasn’t allowed to pursue while living at home. But she was the boss. And we all knew it.

By the time they moved, I was living with my boyfriend, and we had gotten used to the multiple threatening voicemail messages, as well as the roughly 20-30 calls a day to talk to me (both at work and at home. I would get spoken to at work about it, but that would simply amp her up, and I resigned from many jobs because of this – I was never fired, though it was often implied I would be. She knew this, and was seemingly delighted by it. If I didn’t resign, she would have some type of emergency that I was somehow responsible for in taking care of her recovery: a concussion, a broken arm, a slip and fall fracture – you name it, she made sure it happened. If you had the flu, she had malaria. If you had a cough, she had pneumonia. It was neverending.) I lived in a constant state of fight or flight, even with her being 2,000 miles away at the time. Who needs roller coasters or to jump out of a plane when you have a constant flow of excessive adrenaline coursing through your veins, amirite?

One particular weekend, while I was still in California, we were home making brunch and had a few friends over to watch whatever game was on that day. I had made no mention of wanting to have a baby, had no plans to get pregnant, and in fact, it was the furthest thing from my mind. I knew I wanted kids, I just didn’t know when and it just wasn’t on my radar yet. I knew a call was coming, but I had guests, so I made the decision to screen so I could enjoy myself. Right on cue, she called and the machine picked up. What followed was the most hurtful diatribe letting me know if I were to ever THINK about “getting pregnant by THAT man” I would be “motherless. An orphan. I would no longer have a family, and she would never acknowledge my bastard child.” This from my mother who described herself as a bleeding-heart liberal, and spent her life and career serving the underserved, which I always looked up to (and still do). My boyfriend and I were not married – we were engaged for a while, but never actually tied the knot. He was a bit older than me at a time that really mattered in my cognitive development, and as you grow and change and begin to mature, you start to realize just how important your fundamental ideals and morals truly are. And ours just weren’t the same. Which is okay!

After hearing the message, I was inconsolable and when I called her back to try and find out where this was coming from, she stated she had spoken to J, and they knew I was manipulative enough to plan something like this and she hated me for it. This was nothing new either, as my mom used to love to tell me how I’d been manipulating her since birth, which isn’t even possible, but I didn’t know that all the times I heard it growing up. I don’t think it comes as any surprise that a mere few months later, I was pregnant with my first daughter. And I didn’t tell her, because why would I? She told me I’d be a motherless orphan with no family support. I had his family, and there are not enough words I can say to describe how wonderful, kind, loving, and helpful his mom was from start to finish. She was the mom I deserved.

I confided in my brother and he didn’t know what to do. He agreed it probably wasn’t the best time to tell her yet, but that I should at some point. That point came a little sooner than I had anticipated. Being a wonderful soon-to-be-grandma, his mom had set up a surprise baby shower with all of our friends and his side of the family, and she’d had this lovely idea to have my mom on the phone when I walked in the door, so it coud be like she was there.

It didn’t go well.

His mom didn’t know I hadn’t told mine, because I was well trained not to speak ill of my mother. She had very strict rules about that and a look that would pierce your soul if you ever questioned her. She was also big on making others not as educated as her feel small, and she was very, very good at it. My mother was extraordinarily smart – she skipped kindergarten and first grade, and began her elementary career in second grade. She graduated high school at 16, and was in college soon after. I always admired her brilliance, and she was also funny as Hell. She knew how to charm a crowd like no other, had the best laugh ever, and I was part of that audience so desperate for her acknowledgment and approval.

She had a lot of words for his mom, who felt devastated and from that day forward, wanted to avoid my mom at all costs. Who could blame her? She had even more for me a few days later. Something she was also very good at was to shun you for days, no communication, no sign of life, no nothing, all to let you know you had made a BIG mistake in what she viewed as “an absolute affront.” I never knew which was worse, the silent treatment or the screams and insults about what a fraud, waste of space, failure, and embarrassment I was and how I’d never be as smart or successful as her. Another favorite line of hers was, “You better hope I live forever, because you will never make it in this life without me.” This was all a manipulation on her part, of course, because she had a death grip on control over me that she was unwilling to relinquish. She needed me to need her, and the moment I sought any type of independence or individuality, she took it as a slight against her. She maintained complete control over who I could be friends with, where I could hang out, and especially what I could wear. I don’t even want to tell you what life was like during puberty!

I’ll just stop for a moment here to give huge props to therapy! It took a long time to connect with the right therapist, but I wasn’t willing to give up on myself, and once I did and was willing to do the introspective (and often difficult) work, my healing began and it has since been wonderful and so, so freeing! I have a very lovely life, and so do my children. Though the three of them are grown, we still love to hang out, laugh our asses off, and be together as the family I always hoped for. My husband makes me laugh every single day, and takes such good care of my heart, which I do for his in return. I am very, very lucky and I acknowledge that fact daily. I am incredibly grateful resources like therapy and SSRI’s and myriad mental health services like these exist, and believe they should be available (and affordable) to everyone at any time for any reason. *Steps off soap box*

This time, after she learned I withheld the baby information from her, it was, “I can’t believe you would do this to me. I guess I’m just so horrible that I should go kill myself. You have taken something away from ME and you’re just going to let HER (his mom) throw you a party you don’t even deserve? I hope you get NOTHING, and don’t think I’m buying you ONE THING. You’re the fool who got knocked up, so YOU can figure it out.” I was about eight months pregnant at the time, and it cut like a knife.

While my boyfriend’s mom walked the halls with me and rubbed my back and fed me ice chips and told me how strong I was and how proud she was of me throughout my 37-hour (and insanely difficult) labor, my mom refused to travel to California for her first grandchild’s birth, and didn’t want any updates or to hear anything about it. And yet, she demanded I fly, alone and still postpartum, across the country to bring the baby to her, whom she then acted like was hers and that she’d had some kind of hand in her being born.

I didn’t even tell her about my second daughter’s birth until after the fact.

This all may seem irrelevant to the story about Ports O’ Call, but it does help establish how little I could count on my mom, especially in times of extreme need and fear.

My brother’s Little League team had just won a championship, and as an end-of-the-season treat, the players and their families went to Round Table Pizza to celebrate. My mom was THEE baseball mom. She kept score, she talked trash, she had all the necessary accoutrements to attend the games (including her visor, her folding chair, and her often-loud mouth). My dad was usually on the sidelines as an assistant coach, and I was just hanging out at the snack stand trying to get real with some ball park nachos and a Whatchamacallit. I don’t know if anyone knows this, but baseball games are long! I had very little patience to begin with, but this was a whole other level of boredom!

This was during the summer, so one of my cousins was staying with us, and prior to a whale watching excursion (which were quite popular back in the day), we had made a stop at Ports O’ Call, which was located in San Pedro, California, and very close to the dock where the whale boats would depart. It was a hop, skip, and a jump from Long Beach, and was this fabulous outdoor shopping center. There were gift shops, restaurants, fish markets; all of the touristy locales those from out of state love to visit.

Every time we frequented this splendid spot, my brother and I were allowed to get one souvenir. I’ve always been into jewelry (no lie, a dashing five-year-old named Darrin once presented me with a gorgeous set of pearls for my third birthday that his mom said he’d “paid for with his own money.” I know now this is likely untrue, because what five-year-old has that kind of cash…even if they were the $3.50 set from Toy ‘R’ Us, but what did I care? They looked glamorous and I was hooked!)

My cousin was holding me and taking me around the different vendors when I saw this great little jewelry stand and insisted that we stop. We took a look at all of the wares, when my eyes landed on a gold and aquamarine ring. It clearly wasn’t fine jewelry because it had an adjustable, bendy band, but the blue stone looked so pretty and I wanted it. I wanted it bad! My cousin called my parents over and she told them how enchanted I was with it. The vendor had let me try it on, and considering it was my birthstone, I didn’t know how could they object! What was probably no more than a $5 ring made me feel like royalty, darling,

I had every plan to wear this to the fancy (in my mind) pizza banquet, but had trouble keeping it from falling off my scrawny little finger. So instead of using my thumb and pointer to tighten the ring (which for some reason scared me), I instead used my teeth to “bite it into place.” We can analyze why biting it made me feel safer than tightening it the way it was intended, but I’m not there yet in therapy, so we’ll agree to put a pin in it, table it, and revisit it another time, yes?

Usually, it worked just fine and would form to my finger perfectly. But this was the first time I’d ever worn it out and about and it took some getting used to; I liked to manipulate the feel of it so I could tell where it was on my finger and how easy it would still be to take off. My brother and his team were enjoying the ruckus of the pizza place, and I was just happy to be included. The players were always so nice to the littler siblings, and it felt so special to be accepted. But I also experienced social anxiety, and would begin to feel overwhelmed if the energy was too high (which also explains my nervous barfing. Sigh. But that’s just how my social battery works, and I’ve accepted it, finally, without judgment.)  

My whole life I can think of the tricks and tips I used to convince my brain I wasn’t having a panic attack (which I didn’t know the term for until my late 20s). I had self-soothing methods I would employ (that I didn’t know were legitimate techniques at the time!) I would repeat mantras in my head, use sensory methods such as Play-Doh, repeat a click on my lips, and laser focus on the things I could see in my room and name them. It typically worked, and I was usually able to calm myself successfully. One of the lesser appropriate methods was to bite on my ring a few times until I felt calmer. And this is where it all went wrong!

I got a bit overwhelmed with so much liveliness in the reserved pizza room and began biting on my ring to feel better. Except this time, I bit too hard. Instead of my usual biting on the top or bottom, I bit from the side. And instead of readjusting to a normal size, the ring dug right into the fatty part of my finger and stayed. *Disclaimer: this is not my finger, but definelty resembles what it looked like!* No amount of teeth manipulation could get it unstuck, and the harder I tried, the tighter it got, to the point it started to swell and turn purple. Soon enough, you could barely see the ring through the flesh that continued to puff and swell.  And this was all while my family was celebrating my brother and I didn’t want to make noise.

But then it began to hurt. Bad. The pain was intense and I knew I had to say something. To someone. Anyone! When you’re six-years-old, you want your mommy. And I did. So, I ran to her, crying, and holding my swollen, purple, almost black finger up to her. I was panicked and I didn’t know what to do.

I could have known she’d make it about her, but I think I was still too young at the time. I just remember getting yelled at and her crying about how she “couldn’t handle ANY of this!” She really didn’t like when I stole the spotlight from her in any way OR discussed certain things that had happened in my life that resembled anything that may have happened in hers, and I had no right to have trauma about any same thing, so I buried those memories deep instead and never spoke of them again. In this moment, my mother handed me off to her friend, who held and comforted me as I frantically searched for my mom. To my heartbreak at the time, my mom had fled to the bathroom, and locked herself in a stall until it was over (while crying her eyes out as if it was something being done TO HER, on purpose, and on my part).

The Fire Department was called to come help remove the ring, but let us know it might take a while, as there were other, more pressing calls at the moment. In the meantime, an electrician who just so happened to be enjoying an everything pizza after his workday, kindly approached my mom’s friend, and let us know he had some wire cutters in his truck, and he’d be happy to try to cut the ring off while we waited for the FD. She said yes. I guess I remember my dad coming around, too, but he wasn’t very good about injuries (as evidenced by him yelling at me when I fell out of the loft), and probably assumed my mom had it covered.

The electrician was so kind, so gentle, and really, really patient, because I was so scared to hand my black, purple, ballooned finger over to him. He was able to find just the right spot to cut, talked me through it, then the next thing I knew, my finger was free, the blood returned, and the swelling disappeared. And all of a sudden, my mother reappeared. She took me from her friend’s arms and talked about how traumatizing the whole event was. For her.

I was later reprimanded by her for two things: taking attention away from my brother, which she was sure I had done on purpose (at six years old), and for making her as scared as I did. She reminded me she didn’t deserve to feel that scared. She never once acknowledged the fear, terror, or worry I felt during the ordeal, especially after hearing I could lose my finger if the ring wasn’t removed, and SOON. I’d known for a long time before, but this was my first real taste of understanding that I existed FOR my mother, not alongside. My identity was making my mother not look foolish or incompetent. It was not to be myself, be independent, or be individual. It was to make her look like a good mother. And any slips or missteps would not be tolerated.

It’s taken a long, long time to find Susanna (and maybe a little longer than I’d expected after my mother died), but I’m sure glad I did! Because y’all…this gal’s alright.

And, as anyone who knows me, I still (and forever will) love me a nice, dainty, FABULOUS piece of jewelry!