Mum Knows Best

“I did not feel finished with childhood,” Gemma confesses. “Forty years to this day and the flashbacks have come back to haunt me.”

Gemma is living with the toxic legacy of a bad mother, my old childhood neighbour. After she was born, her paternal grandmother took to caring for her as her mother was suffering from post natal depression.

Soon the grandmother decided that she was a better mother for the little baby girl than her daughter-in-law who was constantly listless, moody and suffering from insomnia. Grandmother was afraid that the daughter-in-law would be careless and harm baby Gemma.

Gemma’s mother was desperate and felt guilty and blamed herself for “losing” her child. She became a weepy woman who would sleep during the day and stay up at nights. She had very poor appetite and became very ill physically. Everyone worried about her.

It was years later that Gemma was finally reunited with her mother when Grandmother passed on. Her return to her family home was fraught with bitter tears and a sense of not belonging. From the arms of a dotting Grandmother, Gemma returned as the eldest girl in her family with three other younger siblings. Clearly she was not a favourite.

She had to help her mother with household chores while her siblings played. Her mother by then had unfortunately transferred deep seated hatred of the grandmother to Gemma.

Gemma’s mother was controlling, hyper-critical, and emotionally unavailable. Often angry, both mother and child fought viciously. Their relationship was more pain than comfort much less pleasure. The daily scuffles and conflicts escalated to screaming matches to beatings and canning.

Gemma suffered. She was often slapped across her face for answering back.  At six, she was defiant to a point of sullen stubbornness. When alone, she would brood unhappily. She was never allowed to play with the other children and would watch with longing eyes, smiles and waves.

“My own mother’s violent and unpredictable outbursts can still affect me today,” Gemma smiles wryly.

“My therapist tells me there are positive sides to the traumatic experiences, too.” She pauses for effect.

It is hard to imagine this perfectly groomed woman sitting on her patio in front of me sipping delicate flower tea, as having suffered.

“I have survived it, haven’t I?” she asks and closes her eyes.

I nod.

Gemma’s mother had repeatedly used anger to close conversations and control. She would speak to her other children in a normal motherly tone. With Gemma, it was different. Her mother would shout, yell and hurl abuse at the little girl.

The day it happened, Gemma’s mother discovered that her husband has another woman outside. She went berserk and lashed out at the one person who "caused" the original drift in her marriage. Her deceased mother-in-law. Her focus was completely on Gemma who is a splitting image of her grandmother.

I was there when it happened. Gemma’s mother called her grandmother a whore. Gemma retaliated the only way she could. She screamed for her mother to stop. To shut up. The mother went on and on. Gemma was crying and ran covering her ears. Her mother chased after her, shouting more abuse about her grandmother. Her mother caught hold of her, spun her around. Gemma spat in her face, straight into her eyes.

Her mother was livid. Large and heavy bodied, fuelled by rage, her mother ran into the house, opened the drawer of the sewing machine and came back clutching that menacing black tailor’s  shears. It's sharp ends glisten in the sun.

She lunged and grabbed at Gemma’s long black silky hair and chopped off her locks by the fistful. Gemma wailed. It was an unusually high-pitched sound that was prolonged and seems to come out deep from within her being. Her mother was pulling and grabbing and cutting. Gemma fought back by kicking and scratching and biting.

There was blood as her mother pulled her hair out from the roots.

We were terrified. The small group of children in the garden huddled together. We were transfixed and soundless.

It seems too long a time. Suddenly my skinny mom appeared and wedged herself between Gemma and her mother. My mom grabbed and wrestled the bloodied scissors away.

My brothers and I thought our mom would be killed.

Just as sudden as it happened, it was over. Gemma’s mother was spent and slumped on the grass. My mom and the aunts rallied around and rescued Gemma.

When it was all quiet all the other children started crying. We had been so shocked by that emotional explosion.

It was psychologically damaging for all of us that day.

“Yes, we grew up anxious, didn’t we, Dee Dee?” Gemma says glumly, “Mum knows best.”

“Well, the upside of this incredible childhood experience is that you get to develop a thoughtful personality.”

Gemma still clearly carries the scars of that relationship. Now I realise my own fear and aversion of sharp objects is not entirely baseless.

“I accept that I am an adult now, and start to question the ways I have behaved. That’s a big step, you know Dee Dee.” Gemma smiles.

“Yes, time to create a new story for yourself. You have confronted the old one. Now it’s time to make room for new experiences.” I reply.

We continue to drink more flower tea. It is gynostemma flowers reputed to have powerful antioxidants to boost heart health. It has a slightly sweet, appealing taste.

Something that might balm a bruised and battered heart. Something that Gemma’s mother sent over in a parcel.

This post was featured in the Star newspaper. Doris Lim writes here and here.