I don’t know how many times Gabs said that to me. A lot. She would look at me sideways like she was giving me a major concession. Acknowledging what she knew to be true. That we are like our mothers, but we don’t want to know it.
It would always give me a good feeling, acknowledging we were cast from the same die. Connected and familiar. Like when we were mistaken for sisters so many times, I loved it and she hated it.
We don’t want to be like our mother but we love to be like our daughters. Why would that even be true? There must be some women who want to be like their mother and are very proud of the fact. That in fact would appear to be the normal course of events? So if it is not happening then I must examine further.
I always used to feel so grateful that I had the kind of relationship with my daughter that I did. I could not understand the monumental distance between the closeness that I felt with my mum and that which I felt with my daughter. They were completely different relationships. Almost like different species. But we came down the same chain.
I could say anything to my daughter and she could say anything to me. And did. There was not a moment of holding back thoughts and feelings. I knew I fully had her. There was no insecurities about us. She could say whatever she liked about me to anyone else and I knew that I still had her. It was an unshakeable relationship. I would tell so many people about how lucky I was to have this close relationship with my daughter and how extensively wonderful the closeness and the sharing was.
She told me many many things. She trusted me fully, when she was well. I was her biggest ally. We were honest in different ways. She exposed my compulsion to have everything under control and looking good. She just wanted to have everything and look good.