I can't think of any issues that weren't a source of tension between my mother and I.
She was always looking for reasons to believe I was getting into trouble behind her back. She tapped our phone and recorded my conversations. She interrogated my friends at every opportunity. She tried to read ulterior motives in everything I said or did.
This is not to say I wasn't a troublemaker; I was. I was a deeply troubled youth, who sought solace in pot smoking and friends. The kind of trouble I was getting into was far below the radar of most who knew me. I wasn't dishonest, at least I wasn't until she forced me to lie about my behavior, and I had no interest in getting into any real trouble, but she insisted I was up to no good.
During my parents' divorce, I was ordered into family counselling by the court. Mom brought in all these tapes of phone conversations I'd had with various friends, talking about any number of things. There was a particular series of conversations between my friend Don and I that had her completely convinced I was some kind of a junkie. The reality was that Don was going through a Type O Negative phase and wanted a vial (~5cc) of my blood to wear around his neck. I agreed, seeing no harm in it. Actually, I was pretty flattered by the notion. The counselor refused to to hear the tapes and threatened to bar my mom from any further sessions if she tried to bring "evidence" like that in again. Furthermore, Don's step-father, a lawyer, threatened my mom with civil suit if she ever recorded his step-son in any capacity ever again.
Another time, Mom took me and my best friend to her boyfriend's apartment for a bbq and swimming. I resisted at first because her boyfriend was a total douchebag, but I acquiesced when I was allowed to bring my friend. After four or five hours of hamburgers and swimming, it was getting dark and Mom rounded us up to take my friend home. Once that was done, she took me on a route that was obviously nowhere near our house, so I asked her where we were going. "Don't worry," she said. "It will only take a minute." Twenty minutes later, we arrived in front of the outpatient wing of CHARTER, a teen substance abuse facility. I was livid with her insinuation, but thought it best to just get it over with.
After I was checked in, I was led to a counselor's office for a formal assessment. There was no reason for me to put up a fight about this, however much I wanted to. The more honest I was, the faster I could get out of there and it quickly occurred to me that I might be able to send up a flag for help for my mom at some point during the meeting. The counselor and I talked for about half an hour and he gave me the same line all of the court appointed professionals gave me. "You're a very well-adjusted young lady. I believe you'll do well with anything you put your mind to." Blah, blah, blah...
After all of that, he sent me out into a waiting area, where I flipped through magazines and nearly fell asleep while he spoke with my mother for well over an hour. He finished with her and then called us both in to give us the "I believe family counseling would be your best course of action" speech. I'd heard it all before. It was the same song and dance every single time I talked to one of these people. The only difference this time was that the poor guy actually wanted to help me, but there was too much legal red tape to cut through before he could really do anything and he was just a substance abuse counselor. What I needed, what Mom needed was far out of his depth.
He released my mom from his office and asked me to stay for only a moment. He handed me a referral, along with a handful of apologies for my situation, and told me that I should talk my mom into seeking help. He said that family counseling was likely the only way I'd get her into a psychiatrist's office, but that he saw how difficult my situation was and he was concerned about the number of red flags she'd sent up, so I should try any way I could to get her the help she needs.
That was the first time in my life I had known what it felt like to be vindicated.
I thanked the doctor and hurried out the door, lest Mother get suspicious of our conversation. I never did get her into counselling, but I carried that referral on yellow transfer paper around in my wallet for years afterward. It was a physical reminder that there were people in the world who would stand with me.
It was much later that I had found out why Mom had taken me to CHARTER. A month or so before our little side trip, I had asked mom if I could have one of my friend Anita's kittens. Anita had a cat that had a litter of six and she was trying to find homes for them, rather than take them all to the pound. Apparently, Mom took this as a sure sign I was sexually active and that I was wanting to get pregnant and have a baby.
I was 14 years old.
After I stopped laughing at such a notion, I realized it didn't matter what I did. She would always look for ways to "fix" me. I wasn't even a person to her anymore, because I had started coming into my own and I wasn't the porcelain doll she thought she had groomed me to be.
So yes, there was plenty of tension between my mother and I; so much, in fact, you needed a diamond blade saw to slice it.
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