Lazy: A Personal Experience with How Women Pass on Generational Trauma

Lazy: A Personal Experience with How Women Pass on Generational Trauma

My maternal grandmother was a bitch. Juanita was her name. Dyed her hair red well into her 60’s, tit job, and truly obssesed with perfection. I didn’t know her long; she died when I was only 5. Growing up, I think her death created some kind of angel effect for her. I only ever heard how much she loved me, how kind she was, what an amazing and powerful woman she was. My mother especially fell victim to the “she lit up a room” effect that comes with a person's death. In addition, my grandmother's death sent my mother into a three-year-long struggle with alcoholism, which only reinforced her false adoration for her mother. How could Juanita be a bad person when her death sent my mother into such despair? But she was a bad person, and it took both my mother and me 13 years to realize that. 

It started when I was 17 or so, my memory isn't all that good. My mother and I were talking, and she recounted a conversation she had with her sister. Her sister posed her a question: “What if we weren’t lazy, what if we were just tired?” Lazy was the word that defined both mine and my mothers childhood. In her’s, if she wasn’t constantly being productive, she was “lazy”. In mine, if I was not always giving my 100% effort, I was “lazy”.  But my mother and hers failed to take two things into consideration. My mother had multiple undiagnosed illnesses and so did I. My mother was later diagnoses with ADHD and fibromialga. I was later diagnosed with autism and OCD. I belive my mothers diagnosis finally opened the door for her to reflect on her childhood and see how it affected both me and her.

I was 19 by the time my mother finally acknowledged how her upbringing affected me. I have always struggled with hygiene and cleaning. My room was never clean, constantly filthy. And showers were a once a week affair. And if I’m being truthful, neither of those things has changed. I’d be lying if I said I knew why I was like this. I was simply born that way. My mother would frequently clean my room while I was at school, then berate me for it’s state. This formed a brutal shame cycle. My room would get messy because I for some reason lacked that human instinct for cleanliness. I’d think myself lesser for it. And then I’d be too ashamed to even face the mess let alone clean it. I think cleaning became a shameful activity rather then a fact of life. If I was a better person I wouldn’t have to clean. That idea was only exasperated by my mothers insistence to “clean as I go”. But there was always some blockage. Cleaning after an activity was too much for me. All my mental energy was zapped after doing anything (even just playing with my dolls), and I no longer had the energy to clean up after. I remember as a kid I would frequently debate doing anything, because if I get too tired to clean up after I would feel so stressed. Being “clean” was a moral issue, cleaning was proof of failure, and being messy was nothing short of a disgrace.

“If you just put in effort you’d do good”. Fuck you. That was the endless cycle of my school years. No matter how many times I’d say “I am putting in all my effort!”. No one ever believed me. I spent so much of my life frustrated with school. Undiagnosed autism would do that to you. The cause that is now obvious after so many years is that my mental energy battery is terribly small. Being around people drained me, learning was such a dull activity it drained me, and of course it became a source of shame. After a few hours of being around people I’d be too tired to do anything, let alone homework. Sitting in that classroom, constantly preforming, trying my best to seem normal was exhausting. Add in trying to avoid the constant bullying and it’s clear being in a traditional school was setting me up for failure. I did do homeschool but it was too late, my hate for any kind of school and belief that I was just too stupid had already set in. I don’t know much about my mothers relation with school but I do know her constat accusations of not giving it my all was just another way to call me lazy. 

I love my mother and I blame her for absolutely nothing. She grew up the same way I did, constantly “lazy”. Tired was not a word, self care was not a thing, and shame was the name of the game. To her all this was simply normal. She never knew the signs of mental health struggles, even on her self. She was still living in that shame cycle which was only exacerbated by her struggle with alcoholism. She was simply raising me how she was raised. Yet, my experience wasn’t even as bad as hers. The subtle ways of calling me lazy, were not subtle for her. I cannot remember an experience were she called me lazy straight out, but she remembers her mother saying it. Harsh words were the norm, imagine “NO WIRE HANGERS!” but instead its “NO RELAXING!”. Her shame cycle was focused around productivity. It was a rare sight to see my mother simply taking a break. Constantly cleaning or working, go go go. 

My mother has finally left the rosed colored glasses of death. She no longer sees relaxing as lazy, the need to go go go has lessened, and she is acknowledging how her mental health affected her life. I am not doing as well. I still soak in shame, still have that inner voice berating me, and still shut down at the sight of my own mess. But a little part of me heals everytime I see my mother sitting in her recliner, simply playing on her tablet. If I can be traumatized by my mother’s self-hate then I believe I can be healed by her self-love. It might be a little late, but she’s breaking the cycle that Juantia didn’t. And through her I know my daughter will never feel as I did, or as my mother did, or as her mother did, or her mother, or her mother, or her mother.

(Thank you for reading my little essay! Please ignore any grammar or spelling mistakes. I hate proof reading)