5 'Nice' Family Platitudes Perpetuated By Toxic Mothers

Growing up, I believed my family to be rather normal. After all, we didn’t have any serious diseases, deaths, or divorces to indicate trauma. We had a roof over our heads and plenty of fat-free foods to eat.

My siblings and I were told repeatedly by our parents that they were doing their best — in fact, they were doing better than their parents had ever done. I guess there’s something to that, but that sentiment also negates all of the trauma that we endured.

Now, in my forties with a husband and four kids of my own, I’m finally starting to unravel the threads of my childhood, following the strings back to the source. I’ve written before about realizing that my father is a narcissist, but it’s my mother’s voice that, to this day, I constantly hear criticizing my every move from the recesses of my memory.

Far worse, though, are her toxic platitudes — but to her, they’re not cliches. They’re ideals she lives by, but for years they caused me confusion, guilt, and strife that I refuse to pass down the family tree.

Here are 5 'nice' family platitudes perpetuated by toxic mothers:

1. 'You’re so pretty, all the boys will be chasing after you'

My mother has been telling me this for as long as I can remember. Perhaps this sounds like a compliment to you, as it did to me when I was young. I briefly imagined myself as a Disney princess, able to choose my favorite from throngs of suitors.

The reality was starkly different. I’m not unattractive by any means, but I’m awkward to the core and probably autistic. I was a prime target for obnoxious boy behavior.

Girl being bullied by boys Pixel-Shot / Shutterstock

When middle school boys stuck gum in my long hair on the school bus, my mother told me that it was probably because they liked me so much. But this contradicted my mother’s old saying — if I was actually beautiful, boys would be nice to me, right?

When another group of boys taunted me for not shaving my legs in seventh grade, I kept that information from her; it would crush her vision for me, and she was adamant that I was too young to shave.

My mother worked hard to keep me looking modest while at the same time constantly praising my beauty. This ultimately had a detrimental effect on my self-image. I found myself striving for perfection.

To this day, I can’t stop fixating on whiskers that seemingly sprout on my face midday; if I feel one with the tip of my finger, I feel so unkempt that I practically rush to the bathroom with my tweezers in tow.

My mother’s sentiment taught me that my image was connected to my likeability — more than that, my likelihood of being loved.

2. 'You want exercise? Try cleaning the bathrooms'

Talk about image issues — I went through an awkward pudgy phase in junior high and early high school. I’m only five feet tall, so any excess weight on my body is obvious, especially to a teen whose lovability is centered on her looks.

I grew up watching my mother obsess over her weight, attending weekly Weight Watchers meetings, and buying fat-free foods to be healthy. She went through phases where she Jazzercised, and for a few summers, she took daily walks.

But most of my memories are of my mother nestled in her favorite plush leather chair with its matching ottoman, napping. My mother didn’t consider activity a factor in weight loss, or overall health.

She had enrolled me in ballet classes as a child because she had an affinity for Degas’ paintings of beautiful ballerinas. She scoffed when I wanted to try tap, and jazz was out of the question. When there wasn’t a suitable dance studio in the town we moved to, my parents told me to focus on my piano lessons instead. This was another “ladylike” activity.

Sad little ballet dancer forced by mother MAD_Production / Shutterstock

Meanwhile, my brother was enrolled in soccer, football, hockey, swimming, you name it … because my parents believed in sports for boys.

On the one hand, I was absorbing all this ideology of what a girl “should” be, but I wasn’t living up to any of it. I wasn’t slim, I didn’t wear makeup as a teen, and I was certainly suppressing a strong lesbian-leaning bisexuality. In short, I felt completely out of place, awkward, alone, isolated, broken — weird.

On the other hand, I started making efforts in my teens to break away from my parents’ expectations and ideals. I signed up for the freshman girls’ soccer team because all four of my friends were joining, and also because the evidence seemed clear that exercising led to being in better shape. My parents teased me for my lack of soccer skills the entire time, and while they weren’t wrong, I still remember the shame I felt at their blunt honesty.

Still, that didn’t stop me from pursuing another activity that I’d never even heard of before — Color Guard for the marching band. I’d always wanted to be a part of the school band, but I was told I didn’t practice piano enough to deserve another instrument. This seemed the perfect mashup of my dance and music skills.

My parents didn’t see the point. “You want us to come watch you do what?” my parents would say. “Twirl a flag?” I was happiest when they didn’t come to the shows; I preferred to perform without their follow-up commentary.

I soon realized that all that running during soccer had made me stronger, and I wanted to be a better performer. I wanted to look better, too, and I wanted those boys to come chasing me. So I started running down the hilly dirt road that went behind my parents’ house, little jaunts at first and longer as time went on.

I lost weight and started feeling confident. I bought myself new clothes with money from my part-time job. My mother hated all of that.

I’d get home from a run, flush with endorphins and feeling accomplished, to the same soundtrack each time. “You know what’s really good exercise?” she’d say. “Scrubbing the shower stalls.” Sometimes she’d mix it up with “cleaning the toilets” or “raking leaves.”

3. 'You’re too smart for that'

Maybe they thought that Color Guard was a dumb activity, but it was ultimately life-changing.

It was in a marching band where I grew close to those who would become my best friends for years to come, as well as where I would meet Jack, my future husband. Through this community, I gained camaraderie as well as confidence. I was lifted up out of the depression that had ravaged me for much of my middle school and junior high years.

Not that my mother noticed any of that. To this day, she doesn’t like to talk about the mental health issues that my siblings and I have all long struggled with. Anxiety and depression run rampant in our family.

@outtpig Where all the trust issues started #parents #relatable #4thofjuly #comedy #mentalhealth ♬ original sound - OuttPig

When my brother recently tried to talk to my mother about his recurring depression, her response was to dramatically sigh and drop her hands into her lap. “Well,” she huffed, “I’m sorry I was such an awful mother…”

My brother clearly has ADHD, which every single one of his teachers called home about in quick succession, year after year. But Byron was “too smart” for that. In fact, all of us were “too smart” for anything that would dare require anyone else’s help. We didn’t talk about tutors, let alone therapists. But we were allowed to go to confession.

4. 'The Catholic Church says…'

My mother’s closest encounter with therapy has been meetings with her priest. According to her gospel, prayer and piety are the path to eternal salvation.

If I dare question or push back on any of this, her response is flustered crying. Often sobbing. I’m quite impressed that she can believe in something so strongly, especially without a full comprehension of the issues.

See, my mother ignores all the parts that don’t concern her. She can’t handle the Bible’s contradictions, so she relies on the church or my father to tell her exactly what to think. She often twists what she sees as religious absolutes to her benefit.

When I was a misbehaving child, I was often reminded that the Bible says to “Honor thy mother and father.” When I was a teenager madly in love with Jack, I was reminded that sex before marriage was a sin. When lesbians moved in next door, she constantly found herself with the opportunity to remind me that queer people go to Hell, too.

She doesn’t know that I’m bisexual, but I’m guessing she’ll find out soon enough that my fourteen-year-old is a lesbian. I’m still preparing myself for that conversation, but more importantly, I’m preparing my daughter.

I don’t believe that entrance to Heaven and Hell is so black-and-white, but when I was young, her moral decrees weighed on me. I spent too many sleepless nights worrying if I was “good enough” — not just for a boy to like me, but also for God to accept me into his kingdom.

When Jack wanted to get married in the Methodist church where he was raised, is it any wonder that I cut my ties with Catholicism? My mother still hasn’t forgiven me for that. As each of my children’s Methodist baptisms, it seemed that I was ripping open the wound further. Preceding each ceremony, she commented the lines of how disappointed she was, usually in terms of wishing that the babies could be “really” baptized.

A couple of years ago, after she made snide remarks about me taking my daughter to visit a historic house one Sunday morning instead of going to church, I reminded her that I was an adult with a right to make my own decisions on these matters. In response, she blew up at me, her face reddening as she pointed her finger in my face. “No!” she bellowed. “You’re still my daughter!” And then she stormed off, probably thinking she’d made her point. She did, but not the one she intended.

5. 'Blood is thicker than water'

My mother likes to tell the story of my birth, and after she gets past all the labor and c-section drama, it goes something like this. “When I found out you were a girl, I was just so happy. I knew that I would always have a best friend.”

I’m sure that by this point in the article you’ll understand why I balk at this story. I can’t remember a time when that sentiment didn’t make me uneasy. From the time I was a young teen onwards, it seemed to be her way of justifying using me as her therapist, usually complaining about issues with my father, her siblings, or our neighbors.

The thing is, while she wants to be open with me, I can’t be open or authentic with her. My truth constantly upsets her, either to tears or rage. Every conversation with her is peppered with judgments, guilt, shame, criticism, and condescension.

Visits with her stress me out in the time both leading up to the visit and for days afterward. A fifteen-minute visit equates to about three cumulative days of anxiety. She refuses to accept who I am and clings to her vision of me instead of loving who I actually am.