Mommy Dearest: A Love That Hurts
Trigger warning: religious trauma, emotional abuse, suicide attempt
It’s hard growing up with a narcissistic mother — one who’s as much a religious fanatic as she is self-absorbed. Don’t get me wrong, I love my mom. In fact, I’m one of only two kids left who still talks to her, checks in, does things for her, and keeps her updated about my life. The rest of my siblings have completely shut her out. And honestly, I can’t blame them.
She’s not a horrible mother in the traditional sense. She never physically hurt us. But emotionally and mentally, she left scars — maybe unintentionally, but they’re there. I still remember every word of our conversations growing up.
When I was seven, she told us about the “end of the world.” She said a time would come when we’d be forced to take the “mark of the beast,” tattooed on our skin, or face death — by beheading. Yes, she described that in detail. I was seven. And that wasn’t a one-time talk — it was the kind of story that replayed throughout my childhood and never really stopped, even now.
She was so hell-bent on the world ending so gruesomely that she believed planning or saving for the future was pointless. Because of that belief, she had my dad sell all our properties back in the late 90s when I was just a kid — a house in a prominent village in Pasig, real estate in Rizal on a mountaintop village, a prime commercial lot in Las Piñas, and other properties across Manila. She withdrew all our family savings and investments, closed every bank account, and kept the money at home.
That marked the beginning of our financial downfall. I watched my dad struggle and break under the pressure — torn between keeping the family afloat and shielding us from emotional chaos, while my mom constantly threatened him with suicide if he dared go back to work.
Imagine being a husband and father, begging for a chance to provide, while the woman you love tells you she’ll end her life if you do.
And imagine being nine years old — the only child who witnessed it all. The kid who saw his mother tie a rope to the ceiling, step on a chair, and attempt to hang herself. The kid who tried to lift her feet just to keep her alive. The kid who ran, screaming for his father to help.
That kid was me.
I was nine.
And that memory never left me.
Years later, when I was finally old enough to work, I built a life I could be proud of — a stable job, a clear path forward. But even then, she managed to pull me back into her world of fear. She pressured me to quit my job in an big company where landed a position as head of the marketing department at age 25, because she believed the “mark of the beast” was upon us. It was relentless. I eventually gave in, not because I wanted to, but because I was exhausted — mentally cornered by guilt and fear.
Our home was a reflection of the chaos — a hoarder’s nest of clutter, dust, and memories that never healed. I was 27 when I finally left. That was when I found peace for the first time in my life.
But peace is fragile when you love someone who refuses to change. Her religious obsession still dictates every conversation, every conflict, every relationship. Ironically, it’s the same faith she clings to that drove my siblings away from the Church entirely. It broke their belief.
I, somehow, still practice my faith — not out of fear, but quiet understanding. I still go to church when I can. I pray. But I’ve learned balance. I no longer let faith become a chain.
Recently, one of my sisters fell into depression. I’ve been there for her every day — morning check-ins before work, messages after hours, even quick calls in between meetings. But a sibling’s comfort can only go so far. Eventually, she longed for our mother’s love. So she reached out — hoping for empathy, maybe a listening ear.
Instead, my mom made her pray. No space to speak, no understanding — just prayer. My sister stayed polite but quietly stopped answering afterward.
Then my mom turned her attention to me.
She started calling me every fifteen minutes during work hours, despite me telling her not to. When I tried returning the calls after work, she wouldn’t answer because she was “busy praying.” Then she’d call again late at night, when I was asleep. This went on for days.
Yesterday, she left me a voice message accusing me of avoiding her — saying I was causing her stress, that she couldn’t sleep, that I was being unfair. Somehow, my sister’s pain became about her. Again.
And that’s what breaks me. I understand why she is the way she is. I know her behavior comes from fear, loneliness, and her own unhealed wounds. But it’s exhausting. It’s frustrating to keep loving someone who can’t see past herself — who confuses control with care, and faith with fear.
I love my mom deeply. I always will. But some days, loving her feels like carrying both devotion and damage at the same time.
And today, it’s heavy.
