Why I Took My Anti-Therapy Mom to Therapy
Growing up in a Caribbean household, I can distinctly remember my mother always telling me “Your inside business don’t belong to Tom, Dick, and Harry”. Translation: what happens in your home is not the concern of anyone outside of your home. With this concept ingrained into my being from the time I was a little girl, you can imagine how difficult it was to decide that my mother and I needed therapy. And how much more difficult it was for her.
“So, Iyana, what would you like to say to your mother?” our therapist asks.
Sitting in the stark white office on separate couches, the awkwardness was unbearable. I knew that my mother couldn’t understand why I thought we needed to be here. Growing up in St. Vincent, a small island in the Caribbean, mental health and its implication had always been frowned upon. Unless it is an absolute emergency, all problems in Caribbean culture are resolved inside of the home with the help of God, family, and maybe some friends. But it was never to be brought to outsiders.
Which is why as she fiddled with her purse nervously, I felt guilty for forcing her to betray her morals of keeping her business to herself—the lesson of her homeland.
I decided that we needed to go to therapy because we were both struggling with coming to terms that I was no longer a child. As a recent college graduate who had been away from home for four years, coming home felt like I was being baited with what seemed like a perfect home life, but was really a new forefront of problems for me to resolve. We argued constantly about everything and nothing. We fought about her moving my things without asking. We fought about washing the dishes. But most importantly we fought about my need to be independent.
Returning home was originally such a rush because I was finally going to be a real adult. You know? Like Samantha in Sex in the City, I just wanted to live my life recklessly without a care for others’ judgements. That dream came to a screeching halt anytime I went out past 10 P.M with my friends.
Although I normally didn’t feel obliged to let her know my whereabouts, I informed her one day that I was going to a stranger’s birthday party. But once I got there, I got so lost in the free champagne and company that the last thing on my mind was calling my mother. About an hour and a half later when it occurred to me to call, it was too late. I had 28 missing calls from her. Four missed calls from my cousin. Two from my dad. It was bad. Once I called her back, it was a stream of angers spewed on me. I was frustrated too, but also confused. I understood that she was concerned, but almost 30 calls? AND she had called the police? I couldn’t understand why this was so out of bounds.
The final straw came when I went out with a friend for drinks after a photoshoot. We hadn’t planned on staying out, but had gotten food and a free drink so we figured we would stay out longer. Already apprehensive about how overbearing I knew my mother was, I updated her once or twice as the night progressed. Yet, somehow, I still got the call yelling that I was wrong and needed to come home. Maybe it was the vodka soda or maybe it was pent up frustration of feeling like I had missed out on so many things in life because of her fear of the world but either way it finally got to me; I lost it.
“I am not doing this with you anymore,” I said with a strange almost eerie sense of calm once I arrived home.
She looked at me, lost as to why there was makeup running down my face.
“I told you to call me! You know what you’re supposed to do!”
“I am tired of this. I do everything I can to make this easier for you and none of it is ever enough. I tell you where I’m going. I tell you when I’ll be back. I try so hard and it always ends up with me still being in the wrong”
“Don’t start. You know that these were strangers—
I interject “Who cares!”; I had decided I didn’t want to hear any of the reasons or excuses this time. “I said I would call. You didn’t even wait for me to do it! You bring other people into it! Calling the police? I am 22-years-old! This isn’t normal. And I am not going to keep acting like it is, just so you can feel better”
Silence. I saw the tears in her eyes well up into sobs.
“I am just doing the best I can as a mother. Oh Father! I am just doing my best!”
I knew that she was shocked and hurt that I could ever lash out like this. And to be honest, so was I. I knew that it always bothered me, how smothered I had felt by all of her rules, but until that night I hadn’t realized its extent.
This fight was different than any other kind we had ever had. There wasn’t the usual silent treatment for a few days and pretending it didn’t happen. This had been a flood of feelings that we both had never expressed and we now didn’t know what to do now that it was out in the open. When we didn’t speak for a few days, I suggested we go to therapy to try to resolve our issues. She was resistant at first. She didn’t understand why the two of us sitting down and trying to work it out wasn’t enough. She wanted to know: “Why isn’t the tried and true Caribbean way enough this time?”
One answer to her question: too often we believe that therapy is reserved for people in dire circumstances, and white people. People of color have been trained for so long to live in survival mode. The idea of seeking help because you’re “sad” wasn’t a valid one when there were so many other pressing battles to face. Only white people, have time to sit an office to talk about their childhoods. So instead, we carry the traumas of our lives with us, believing that we will be just fine, when in reality it does more damage for us in the long run. Therapy is framed around the stigma of weakness, a world people of color refuse to identify with. We have always been told that we are strong, not because we want to be, but because it feels like there’s no other choice. But therapy is not reserved for white people. It is for anyone who wants to work on themselves to be a better happier person. And everyone, especially with the world we’re living in, could work on that.
The other, more personal, answer was I couldn’t picture a life without my mother. Even though I understand generational habits and picking up traits from my parents that are simultaneously the best and worst parts of me, I can’t have a life without her. After reading What No One Tells You About Breaking Up With Your Mother, I was moved to tears to how much I related to this girl. And how immensely proud I was of her for taking the step to move on to a life that was healthier for her, even if it meant losing someone she loved dearly. But that life isn’t for me. Without my mother, I would be missing the hilarious oracle who has stood by me each and every day. I need her too.
“Iyana, what would you like to say to your mother?” our therapist repeats to me.
I unclench my hands and bring my mind back into the room. I try to forget about the fact that I am terrible at communicating and that I’m sweating profusely through my sweatshirt, and why did I wear a damn sweatshirt today?
I look up at my mom. She gives me a small reassuring smile and this moment means more to me than anything in the world. Because she’s scared and I’m scared but we love each other and we just want to do that happily. Safely.
“So, here’s how I feel . . .”
About the Author
Iyana Jones is starting her graduate program in Media Studies with New School. She found her passion for writing in high school for writing for the school paper and now has expanded her interests to lifestyle, pop culture, and identity. Her goal is to write as the missing first generational black female voice she wish she had found earlier in life. Outside of writing, she's likely to be found feeding stray cats or watching bad MTV shows unironically. You can read more of her work on her blog here.
