How a dress from 20 years ago triggered an epiphany

Last night in therapy we talked about the differences between a relationship and enmeshment. How a relationship recognises the other person as their own entity – their achievements and failures, highs and lows, are all their own – whereas with enmeshment they are an extension of you, so their achievements etc are your doing… It’s all about you, not them.

When I was 13, I had a Christmas Feast ball thing at school, and mum bought me a red dress. It was floor length, vivid red, glittery, slinky and clingy… it was the most beautiful dress I had ever seen. As someone whose mother placed a huge amount of importance on image and beauty (literally above everything else), I already had dreadful self esteem and a terrible body image, so when I tell you that when I put this dress on I felt beautiful for the first time in my life, I need you to believe how powerful a feeling that was. I had a wonderful ball, and I looked and felt incredible.

Some months later, she shared a poem she’d written with me. It was about a red dress she’d seen on a hanger. I don’t recall the many (many) verses that went on about how gorgeous it was, but it ended with this couplet:

“And so she bought it.
For her daughter.”

I couldn’t place the discomfort I felt at the time, but I can tell you I never wore that dress again.

I now know that awkward feeling I had was recognising her jealousy of me. Her anguish at how having children ruined her figure – heavily implied, if not actually spoken, all the times she said she called herself fat and hideous during my youth all the while criticising my eating habits and “warning” me I’d end up “just like her” if I wasn’t careful (as if being overweight was the absolute worst thing I could turn out to be). She was envious of her own daughter’s youth and beauty, and made sure I knew by giving me that dress, I was somehow now responsible for the pain and suffering she felt. It was all about her.

I realised that this flashback confirmed what my therapist and I were already talking about; my mother and I had an enmeshment, not a relationship. She didn’t love herself so how could she possibly love me. Spoiler alert: she didn’t. Doesn’t. Can’t. Not in any way that puts me first. Not in any way that isn’t selfish. Not in any way that matters.

I know I am already mourning for the relationship I thought we had (but didn’t, in reality), and for the mother I wanted and/or needed, but this really brought home how damaging her influence on me has always been. How her desperate need for affection, attention, and acknowledgement has always trumped my needs. How she couldn’t even be happy that her 13 year old daughter looked nice for a Christmas Ball, instead focusing on feeling jealous and being put out by it.

I think of my own daughter. How I recently bought her a dress – a beautiful ruffled, slinky, gorgeous thing – and how seeing her face light up when I gave it to her filled me with happiness and warmth. It was freely given with no obligation, just love, and was received with utter delight. I think of how amazing she is; warm, clever, witty, wise, beautiful, kind… So many qualities I love about her. I think of how our relationship means I value her as her own person, and absolutely not an extension of me. The very thought of that gives me a sick feeling in pit of my stomach. She is, and always has been, very much herself.

I’m not perfect – far from it – and lord knows I’ve made howling mistakes parenting her during her life, but I am eternally grateful that she knows I love her for all her wonderful qualities, and I will always, ALWAYS, be proud just to be her mum.

I wish my mother had ever felt the same.