“Mommy Nearest“

~me

most of the time. She was incredibly intelligent—an English professor at the local university and had a sharp, analytical mind. Passionate about education, her teaching didn’t stop once she got home. Imagine doing your homework under the scrutiny of your teacher 24/7.

As an activist and a staunch NDP-er, she was a force to be reckoned with politically. Even ran for councilwoman once. She didn’t win but the days we spent putting her signs on people’s front lawns are days I remember fondly. It was one of the few times she seemed happy and her laughter was infectious. The only other time she seemed genuinely happy and relaxed was on summer Sunday afternoons when she listened to the Metropolitan Opera on the radio loud enough for the entire neighbourhood to hear. It’s one of the few times she seemed truly engaged and lost in something she loved. Her love of the opera was shared by her good friend Guy. Suave, charming, tall dark and handsome and an immaculate dresser (cravat and all), he was the owner of a successful vineyard in Niagara. Completely opposite to Roger. I always thought Marnie and Guy were having an affair. I’m still not convinced they weren’t but either way, she lit up and dressed up for him. When he picked up and whisked her off in his silver Rolls, I would find her bright red lipstick-blotted tissue in the bathroom and wonder what kind of adventure she was having away from all of us who she often called “You people.”

Yup. There were days when I didn’t think she liked any of us. Even Andy.

To me, she was an enigma wrapped up in a mystery covered in layers of murky deep water. But to be honest, I really have no idea who Marnie G. was.

When I first arrived at my new home, she treated me with warmth and kindness. A light in the dark and turbulent storm of my childhood. She sat me down, held my hand, looked me straight in the eye and told me I was safe, that I had a home. I remember thinking that I had finally found a place where I was going to stay and no one would be coming to take me away. However, as days turned into weeks, the initial warmth faded. Marnie was not one for hugs and kisses. Her affection was rare, her demeanour often cold. The warmth I had initially felt from her began to dissipate, replaced by a confusing mix of slight disdain and constant criticism. I struggled to figure out what I had done wrong so that I could course correct but I was never able to find the key to Happy Mommyville.

My adoptive father, Roger, was kind but his hugs often lingered too long, his body pressed close enough to me that I could often feel his penis and his hands sometimes landed on inappropriate places. I never knew how to react, the warmth of his affection tainted by discomfort and confusion. He wasn’t a bad man, and he supported me in ways Jennie never did and I loved him for it – but still. He took me to track meets and gymnastic competitions and cheered on my athleticism, but there was always a feeling of something not quite proper when he was close to me. I often wondered if it was because I wasn’t his biological daughter. Men are interesting creatures.

Then there was Tommy, my brother, three years younger and the apple of Marnie’s eye. He was a spoiled brat, who unless properly bribed, would rat us out whenever he could. Pampered and indulged, he revelled in the attention that I craved. I remember watching him get a new tricycle for his birthday, a shiny navy blue one that he happily rode up and down our quiet street. I clapped and cheered for him, all the while wondering what it would take for me to earn such a gift.

The most challenging was Nicky, my older sister, three years my senior. She was mean, and abusive, and took pleasure in tormenting me. Many mornings as we would leave our shared bedroom upstairs, she would grab my arm and dig her sharp nails into my skin watching me and daring me to cry out. Then she’d abruptly let go and push down the slippery wooden stairs, laughing as I tumbled and bruised. Jennie would always scold me as she wiped my bloody lip or put a bandaid on scraped body parts, and tell me I had to be more careful. I never told on Nicky. Figured the behaviour would just escalate. But the worst was when she and her best friend Cheryl slipped LSD into my drink. They watched me trip, my reality warping in terrifying ways. That experience left deep scars, both physical and emotional. Still, I never told, always feeling like my side would not be believed as I was the foreign interloper.

Through all of this, most days were filled with a desperate desire to win Marnie’s approval. Every smile or laugh I could elicit from her felt like a precious gem. In those rare moments, when her stern facade cracked and she seemed to genuinely enjoy my presence, I basked in a happiness I seldom experienced. I remember one summer afternoon when I told her a joke I’d heard at school. She actually laughed. A genuine, hearty laugh that lit up her face. I lived off that moment for weeks. Yet, these moments were fleeting, overshadowed by her underlying disapproval.

When I was ten, I found out my adoptive parents had had a son who died from Down Syndrome a year before I was adopted. Perhaps, this was what caused this distance between them. Losing a child casts a shadow that lingers over everything. It was after this discovery that I began to understand why Marnie treated me the way she did, but even so, I could only comprehend her behaviour with a child’s mind. And a child’s emotion. And it hurt to feel her constant rejection. Even so, I still craved her affection and tried to please her in any way I could. This dynamic with Marnie deeply affected me, moulding my personality into that of a people pleaser. The need to be liked, to feel worthy, became an all-consuming drive even though I wasn’t fully aware of it at the time. I constantly felt that I had to prove myself, to show that I was good enough, yet with Marnie nothing I did seemed quite good enough. During my time in foster care, the instability and lack of permanence left me with a profound sense of insecurity. Each new home could be a fresh start but it could also be another potential rejection. Marnie’s treatment compounded these feelings. To her, I must have been more than just another child in need of a home. I must have seemed a very poor substitute for her lost son and a constant reminder of her grief and unresolved pain. This realization reinforced my sense of inadequacy and it’s something I have struggled with most of my life.

Years later, with my own daughter all grown up, and shortly before Marnie died, I wrote her a letter thanking her for adopting me and giving me the closest thing to a family I have ever known. It may not have been all warm and fuzzy but without those years of stability who knows where I would have ended up. I wrote that I admired her courage in bringing a brown child into a white middle-class neighbourhood in a small GM town in the 60s. A few days after I mailed the letter Nicky called me and told me Marnie had asked her to read the letter aloud —she was 89 at the time—and that she wanted to speak to me. In that short conversation, she told me that she had no idea I felt that way about her and asked why had I never told her these things. She seemed genuinely shocked. I couldn’t tell if it was disappointment that I hadn’t told her earlier or if she wished she had taken the time to know me better. I like to think it was the latter.

I wanted to say, “Do you have any idea how intimidating you are Mom? I would have told you if I thought that it mattered to you.” Instead, I just thanked her, and told her I loved her, to which she did not say she loved me back, and then after a few more minutes and a promise to visit soon, I said goodbye. That was the last time we spoke. She died a few weeks later. I believe she willed herself to die. My sister had just moved Marnie into a new seniors residence and she hated it. She had lost her independence due to a fall last summer and when I visited her afterwards she had made it clear that she no longer wanted to live. I tried to give her hope but I could tell she was done.

My memories of the woman I once called Mom are filled with a mixture of sadness, regret, love and gratitude and an underlying sense of failure that I was never able to win her love and affection. Despite her flaws, Marnie provided me with a home when I needed one. Like me, and pretty much every other human on the planet, I see now that we are all products of our grief and circumstances, and we are all doing the best we can with the hand we are dealt. Marnie’s inability to show me any real affection was not a reflection of my worth but rather a manifestation of her pain.

But regardless of my limited understanding of them now, those childhood experiences shaped me into who I am today. They cut into my soul deeper than anything else possibly could have. But they have also given me a profound understanding of the complexities of human relationships and the deep-seated need for approval that can drive our actions. While the journey has been ripe with some brutal challenges, it has also been one of huge growth and self-discovery. And now, at 63, I am just learning to seek validation from within and to understand that my worth is not defined by the approval of others but by my own sense of self. It’s not easy though. When a child grows up in an environment where a parent is emotionally distant and frequently disapproving, the consequences can be profound. This lack of affection and support can deeply affect a child’s emotional development. I know it messed up mine.

As I grew older, I became adept at hiding my feelings, developing a shell of perfectionism and self-criticism as a defence mechanism. My relationships have been plagued by fear of rejection, and trusting others has become a daunting challenge. The emotional neglect from the woman I called Mom has left lasting scars. Understanding the impact of her coldness was a crucial step toward healing, but the effects of that neglect and rejection are deeply ingrained in my sense of self and my interactions with the world.

You could say my story is one of resilience and hope as well as a testament to the strength of the human spirit and the capacity for love and understanding, even in the face of adversity. And that may be true. But this is not the end of my Mommy stories. Nope. I’ve got another one. Mom, that is. You would think anyone fortunate enough to have two mothers would have it made. I mean one of them had to be Glinda The Good Witch right? Wrong.

I had no idea of the true horror that was about to enter my life.

Horror wearing my eyes and bearing my name.

Mommy Dearest. For real.

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