Every Thursday at It does not rotate, Mardi Noir, psychologist and psychoanalyst, answers your questions. Whatever your questions, in your relationship with others, the world or yourself, write to [email protected]all your emails will be read.
Dear Black Tuesday,
I am very happy to find your articles. They help me a lot in my self-evaluation, allowing me to see things differently than the bad society forces us to!
I let myself react to your article “Is it ok not to love your own mother?”. I’ve been checking for two years now and I’ve been turning the subject of “my mother” around. What annoys me royally and sometimes my lifestyle is so bad. Nah, I manage to verbalize it in session, but hey, there’s still work to do.
Still, I tell myself that this story of mom, it’s still a hell of a thing. For now, just the word: I’ve had fun listening to translations of “mom” in multiple languages and the “my” sound comes out a lot. For me, babies say “mom” (or “ma”, or “mama”, or “ha’ma”…) because they understand that the other person is happy to hear it. Suddenly they were sending “mom” here and “mom” there all the time. My kids (8 and 6) like to say it a lot, sometimes just for fun. It’s annoying!
And then, I observed that it often happens that old people no longer talk about their “mother” but about their “mommy”, although sometimes they have conflicts with this person. Finally, I read in a book by Sylvain Tesson that many soldiers’ last words before dying were “Mother”. While we are getting along, if it is, their mother, they cannot hate her. But in the face of death, huh, very practical to invoke it.
So I wonder: who is this “mother”? I think I have come to understand that my anger towards my mother stems from the fact that she is not “Mom”, or the one at the Soupline pubs, or the one who comes as soon as I call her, or this person who has complete confidence .
So who is this Mom that “we” (and I have!) as needed?
Have a great day, and look forward to reading from you.
Thanks for this question which is, without a doubt, one of my favorite topics. At the dawn of my 40th birthday, I am still captivated by the relationship I maintain with a mother. I regularly hear my patients judge what is healthy and what is not by their behaviors, both theirs and their parents’.
And I have a lot of problems with what should or shouldn’t be considered healthy. Perhaps because I believe that bonding with the mother, whatever it is, with or without it, is unhealthy. However, he was the first person we met. Whether this mother is biological, or of a different gender, she is parent number 1. A unity, an integration, an image, a certainty. Whether he’s good, good enough, bad, depressed, nothing, he’s there. He imposes. It’s not even fair to “be” at this point.
Some women do not like this role, this omnipotence, but they are reduced to it. It’s almost impossible to get out of it. Too much, not enough, but it’s something. This is. Sacred pressure and sacred power!
From my point of view, it governs and at the same time disrupts the relationship with the world from the beginning. He is our first mirror, our first window. There is something unhealthy there, something unhealthy that we want to spread, something unhealthy in the mouth, in the veins, in the bowels, something unhealthy that we need. An essential alienation.
And one day, in fact, we named her, we learned to say “mom”. One of my college professors said something about this that had a profound effect on me: “Mom, that’s the first name we give to loss.” Ok, it’s a bit romantic to say that, but no big deal, it was a shock sentence for me (I already mentioned it in this article). From the day we called her, she was really gone. He went somewhere else. He becomes lost. Well, he used to be, but now there’s a word for it. We may even wonder if our entry into language does not also come from the fact that everything no longer falls into the beak. We need to talk to have a little for what is not, in front of me.
Sometimes, some mothers and some children, even grown up, struggle with it elsewhere. He is hostile, cold, and the warm, warm and cozy womb of the mother is more comfortable, even with his imperfections, his resentments and his regrets.
In The promise of dawn, Romain Gary describes this love, so big, so good that it is difficult to find a woman who gives him the impression of being loved. During the war, he survived by writing to his mother. Then, after a few years, he noted that the answers received were slightly inconsistent. Unimportant. Mom is there. Mom is beyond. His mother, knowing that he was doomed, wrote hundreds of letters in advance and instructed a friend to send them to her son, until the end of the war. Some would say: “this is unhealthy, it is too much, it’s weird”. Yes it’s true. But isn’t it always strange to have a mother? A mother moves, gets upset, questions, gets cold, worries, loves, leaves…
When I replied to the Internet user who wondered if he had the right not to love his own mother, I read in the comments a person who rebelled: “That’s it, it’s the mothers fault again.” Yes, we cannot deny it, the poor often take it for their rank, we put all our ills on them, sometimes to the point of bad faith, sometimes unfairly, especially the nature of many of them are guilt. It answers: “It’s your fault”, “Yes I know”. It’s almost a deal on that level. Others broke the contract and responded with “shut up” instead.
The other day I was in the park with my best friend and her 2 and a half year old daughter. The little one is in an extreme stage of not at all. He pushes his mother as he pushes her. See when kids do that? Can’t get away but they reject you. It’s like “I can’t do it without you but I’ll pay you”. I think that’s what a mother is like. Someone who profits from this situation.
Some accept it with joy, others are depressed, others pull themselves together and work all the time, some don’t really question themselves and live things in sacrifice or resignation, or even in abandonment or paranoia – “this boy wants to hurt me.” Or thousands of other ways. And I believe that no matter what we do, it will always be too much or not enough.