My Mother Told Me I Am Cursed

When you grieve toxic, abusive parents, you don’t just grieve the abuse; you grieve everything you didn’t have — Lily Hope Lucario

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The last time I spoke with my mother was well over two years ago; before that, there had been another two-year hiatus.

She was touching eighty-two and painfully frail (according to my sister). I felt a mix of guilt and perhaps fear upon hearing this, and having had a couple of drinks, I dialled her number. It was New Year’s Day 2023. My family history has a labyrinth of dysfunction and the negative dynamics that come with that, which is why I needed the ‘Dutch courage.’

She was over the moon that I’d called, and the conversation was happy and warm as we chatted and caught up like long-lost friends; I was merry on wine, she on Baileys Irish Cream.

My mother sounded like the mum I had always wanted and ached for. Still, I knew this was just a beautiful veneer that never ceased to take long to crack.

Over the following week or so, there were a couple more carefree telephone chats, with the aid of a little glass of Dutch Courage for me; somehow, I couldn’t maintain the persona without it. She was keen and wanted more of me, as I started to back off, gear engaged into a massive dose of cautiousness, beyond belief.

I had opened up to her that I'd received a Section 21 Eviction Notice in December, from my managing agents, as my landlady was selling up. In an underhanded way, it was a positive, as the flat had huge damp issues with a long list of damaging consequences.

And mum knew the history, as I had been living there for thirteen years; she was happy that I was finally getting the push to move, despite the escalating rents, which was the reason I hadn't moved out well before then.

By February, with zero success in my relentless search to find a new home by my eviction date, I had to act fast, giving away, and dumping—nearly most of my furniture and putting the rest of my belongings in a storage facility. The managing agents were threatening me with court. With the fewest of my items, I nestled into my boyfriend’s flat.

After my whirlwind move, my mum messaged, keen to know that I had found somewhere, as she told me she'd 'felt in her spirit' I had. She was dumbfounded that I hadn’t and was living with my boyfriend, warning me about the fact that we were 'unmarried'.

Taken aback, I felt stumped. I tackled it by thinking how to reply from my adult place, as in mature and respectful, rather than going to my default of feeling like a 'naughty child,' I typed:

“It would be good to have boundaries if you want to carry on with some sort of relationship with me.”

I quickly scanned for a reply, hoping by now at my age, she would validate my private life and choices. But my newly developed boundaries didn’t cut it.

She replied:

“If you disobey this prophecy, I am giving you, then this is your ‘bode — of—curse.’ I am sending this with great love to you, knowing how the curse of your father will come down on you in violence — as it has done — and will do should you step out of His (God’s) way!”

That was the edited version.

DELETE.

BLOCK

That came right from my inner child’s place.

Then I cried and felt cursed — literally. Is this for real?

Still, this wasn’t the first time my mum had given me daunting messages about being cursed. A few years before, after I’d got too needy, my boyfriend had shut down on me; avoidance being his default coping mechanism at that time. It set off my abandonment wounds, not knowing at the time that I was triggered by the unpacked pain of my childhood.

I hadn't thought to reach out to my mother as she wasn’t built for that. Somehow, her unwanted, unloving messages came through. I stupidly replied, hoping she would help, yet her emails grew more and more venomous.

I kept these for several years because they were so far out that I needed to look back and see if I was missing something. And to be honest, I had no clue how to deal with it, part of me mixed up in loyalty and the fear of God, and if I was not honouring her as a parent. The messages were full of rage at me. Another curse, too. This time, it was because I refused to believe another prophecy she had given me:

“God has cursed you and you will never marry anyone, for the rest of your life!”

My siblings told me to ignore her, that she was mentally unstable. Yet I felt anxious and devastated; what if the curses were true? It took me a long time to shake off the belief that I was. The truth was that I had been manipulated and controlled by her religiosity all my life. Somehow, I had been brainwashed to feel safe as a child in her devotedness to a loving but fearful God. I didn’t have a kind or loving father to turn to for guidance and support.

Since blocking my mother, I have penned many memoirs as well as created poetry as an outlet for the deep confusion and pain I felt for both parents. At first, I felt a deep sense of guilt and disloyalty for sharing such personal stories. Yet somehow, over time, it has proven instrumental to my healing, not only in the unpacking of a multitude of layers of numbness, but also in establishing and rebuilding my truth. Sharing my story has also had the power to destabilize the intense shame that had been part of my psyche growing up.

Family dynamics have the power to establish excuses that become entwined in how we view what is or isn’t acceptable behaviour.

How much of it are we expected to accept from a parent? This has been a question I have been asking myself most of my life. I’ve managed to find an answer from a mental health stance, which is to have no contact. I no longer feel guilt for that at this point.

I love my mother out of respect, but I don't like her. My heart breaks when I think of her unhappy childhood, and I am sure her bizarre eccentricity must come from the trauma. Yet what happens when one refuses to see that they push everyone away in their lives, along with blaming everyone but themselves?

I hope that sharing a small part of my story may reach others who are seeking similar answers.

© Chantal Weiss 2025 All Rights Reserved