I Thought When I Buried My Mother, I Buried the Secrets and Pain With her, but It Was Just the Beginning of My Villain Era

The most humbling moment for me was realizing I was broken and had been broken for a long time. I had just been masking through life, unintentionally hurting those around me because I was unhealed and traumatized. 

At 23, my now-husband and I had just purchased our first home. Everything seemed great. We were newly engaged and had recently discovered that we were pregnant with our second child. We decided it’d be best if I resigned from my teaching position since I was in a high-risk pregnancy during the middle of a pandemic.

It was picture-perfect, until it wasn’t, because I was forced to sit with myself and my unresolved trauma. Without a demanding job keeping me occupied and being unable to mute my emotions with marijuana because of my pregnancy, I struggled emotionally and mentally. It was in those months of solitude that I crumbled into itty bitty pieces.

I had thought that when I buried my mother, I’d buried the secrets and pain with her and started anew. But truly, I was running from myself. 

When my mother passed away, I did what I always do—I stepped up and handled business. Hours after her passing, it became clear that no one else was capable of putting her to rest in a way that was respectful to her life. My uncles and aunts were fighting amongst themselves, my siblings were too young, my step-dad (from my mother’s first marriage) and grandmother were heartbroken, and my mother’s husband was in the wind. 

I shoved all my pain down, tracked down the address to my mother’s husband’s parents' house, and made him play his hand in my favor. You see, it turned out that he was the sole beneficiary of my mother’s life insurance (a surprising discovery), and I got word from those in possession of her body that he was planning to cremate her without anyone knowing. Within two days, I ensured he signed to have a funeral in her home state, Georgia, and her birth state, California, covered by her life insurance.

I numbly moved through planning two funerals. I was surprised by my ability to make such difficult decisions at 22, given that there were no will or afterlife plans in place. I did my best to ensure that everyone felt a sense of closure. 

During the time to share remarks at both funerals, I sat quietly, offering support to those in need of strength. Despite my efforts to hold myself together, tears streamed down my face and sobs escaped. Everyone believed I was mourning the loss of my mother when actually I was mourning a relationship I never had with her.

I sat and listened to people reminisce about the good memories they had with her, how loved she made them feel, and how close they felt to her. I have no doubt these declarations were true. My mother was a lively woman who brought life to a party and went out of her way to do for others. And while my mother and I had good moments, the ones that stuck with me in the end were of her wishing me dead, all the times she declared that her life would’ve been better had I not been born, being blamed for her and my step-dad’s divorce, me begging through letters, emails, and tears, for her to treat me the same as she did others, and her inaction to me coming forward about being sexually abused. 

Those around me experienced a relatively decent relationship with my mother, so they couldn’t fathom my disdain and outbursts towards her while she was alive. I was always told, “You only have one mother,” “you’re just being dramatic,” “you’re just spoiled.” 

Instead of seeing my appearance and style as a reflection of my own creativity and resilience, my mother was praised for always prioritizing her children. No one questioned why a child was raising her younger siblings; instead, my mother was commended for molding such a mature daughter. 

My identity was that of someone who sought to make others look good while simultaneously shrinking myself. Like a fein, I chased every accomplishment I could muster, hoping for that sweet high that came from my mom bragging because those were the only moments I felt seen and adored by her. Truly, all I ever wanted was to feel loved by her. 

For over 20 years, my entire identity has been centered on pleasing others. So much so that even writing this truth, my truth, is hard because I know it’s going to ruffle feathers. 

It took crumbling into a million pieces, attempting suicide more times than I can count, and facing my self-hatred to accept that what happened to me was wrong. I people-pleased so hard that I am overly understanding of those who have wronged me. Still, I am not regretful of this ability to be understanding and empathetic because with boundaries in place, I am now a woman of unshakable grace.  

I even somewhat understand now why my mother was the way she was with me. I discovered after her death through a DNA test that my birth father is old enough to be my grandparent. Being that my mom had me before graduating high school, I can imagine the emotional turmoil this caused her and how that jeopardized our relationship before I was even born.

I call this my Villain Era because some family and friends of my mother don't like how candidly I speak about my experiences now. My mother’s death freed me in a way. I was forced to see my pain and trauma since I could no longer chase her for validation and acceptance. People turned their noses up at me because I set firm boundaries so I could heal and find myself. So to many, I am a villain because I no longer tolerate bullshit.

I don’t share this to shame my mother or family, but only to stand in my truth and finally speak up for my inner child.

I wish I felt otherwise, but I don’t. Despite this ever-evolving journey of healing, I know there will always be sadness associated with the mother-daughter relationship I never got to experience. Still, writing helps me make sense of these difficult feelings.

My experiences in life thus far are the reason why I wrote my first book, “We Can’t Be By Ourselves,” a collection of short stories and poems. It’s why I’m still writing.

In my poems, I can release the remembrance of my pain and share feelings of joy. My purpose for writing is to make you think about how your words, actions, and intentions affect those around you. 

When you leave this earth, will the way you made others feel make them miss you or feel relieved?

Until next time, may your everyday hold a little enchantment.

-Imanileo