Today, I told my mother than I will never trust her when it comes to my finances. It’s something I’ve wanted to say since the panic attack on Tuesday, and as much as I know mentioning such things sends us both into emotional meltdown… it needed to be said. I don’t feel good about it – I never do – but she needs to start hearing the truth about the way I feel about her need for control over my life.
The story behind how I found myself in this situation – all my money going into my mother’s bank account – is a long one, and one I’m not really ready to tell. It makes me angry to even think about the years I’ve spent begging for just a tiny piece of independence and having that request thrown back in my face.
I’m in a foul mood today – woke up with a headache which has refused to shift – and I’ve been on the edge of losing it for hours now. I just want a good scream; whenever we try to talk about her taking control, she manages to make me feel like I’m asking too much of her. She makes me feel like this is normal and I’m being unreasonable.
Am I? Am I asking too much? All I want is the money to go into my bank account; something which most other people my age have. Her reasoning? I’ve been in a couple of abusive relationships, and so letting my handle my own money isn’t a good idea because it’ll be taken off me. Never mind that I left those relationships myself, never mind that I was the one to leave the abusive situation – something which I think took a lot of strength and confidence – she insists that I’m easily taken advantage of.
I know I’ve made mistakes in the past. I’ve handed over money for drugs and booze. I’ve given money out when somebody asks for it. Am I the only one, though? I don’t think I am. I’ve learned from those lessons, and all I want is for my own mother to try and trust me a tiny, tiny bit.
Allow me a little whinge here; I know most people think their parents were too over-protective, but the more I look back to my childhood, the more I realise I wasn’t treated like other children. It makes me angry.
Birthday parties? Forget it. Going out with friends? Not allowed. Had my clothes chosen for me. My bedroom decorated how my mother liked it. Banned food – Coke, anything not in a glass bottle, shrink-wrapped food – banned. My mother is still telling me what I should and shouldn’t wear (“that doesn’t suit you, it’s too colourful, I don’t like that fabric, buy this instead”), what to eat (“you can’t have that apple juice unless it comes in glass”), what time to get in (“you won’t be late tonight”), she has to know where I’m going and who with, she asks me who’s calling if my phone rings, tells me to get off my laptop at night, gets me out of bed for no reason, chooses my bedcovers for me, kicks off at the sight of alcohol, refuses to let my friends into the house, and generally makes me feel five years old.
She chose my curtains. My carpet. Rug. Television. Tells me when I can and can’t have my bedroom window open. Gets angry if my light is on after she goes to bed. Shouts if I go to the toilet in the night and accidentally wake her up. Wouldn’t let me choose which bank I used. Took my bank card off me, and now says I must have lost it. I only got my own set of keys a couple of years ago, and I had to beg for those.
I can never be true to myself if she spends her life trying to mold me into her perfect daughter.