Growing up, mornings in our house had a painful ritual that, in hindsight, exposed the chasm between my mother and me. This isn’t the fluffy bullshit of heartwarming tales where a mom tenderly brushes her daughter’s hair while sharing stories, giggling, or planning for the day ahead. Nope. Our mornings were mostly silent except for the sound of the brush scraping through my hair, a daily ordeal that, for me, symbolized way more than just the act of untangling knots. I’ll proceed to describe this shitty pastime as nicely as possible instead of how I really want to describe it. (I’m practicing maturity here. And it’s hard.)
It’s been almost ten years since we last spoke, a decade that’s given me the distance and clarity to look back on those moments with a mix of insight and unresolved pain. My hair wasn’t just long; it was Alanis Morissette mid-1990s long. Each stroke of the brush was a blatant indicator of our disconnect. My mother, with her unwavering belief in the necessity of the task, seemed oblivious to the distress it caused me. My attempts to convey my pain, rarely verbalized, were loud in their silence. Yet, they went unnoticed.
Clearly, this wasn’t about hair. It was a daily, tangible manifestation of a deeper issue: my need for empathy, unconditional love, and a connection that felt increasingly out of reach. The physical pain of those brushing sessions was a metaphor for something much larger—a persistent feeling of being unseen, unwanted, unheard, and fundamentally misunderstood.
In her pursuit of what she viewed as essential, my mother inadvertently taught me a harsh lesson about enduring discomfort for the sake of appearance. It was a lesson I struggled to accept, one that clashed with my growing sense of self and my knowledge of how interactions should feel.
This annoyance, as mundane as it might seem to an outsider, was a microcosm of our broader relationship. My mother, maybe (that’s a strong maybe) with the best intentions, operated from a place of evil duty rather than emotional connection. Her actions appeared malicious and spoke volumes: my feelings, my anxiety, and my needs were secondary to whatever she wanted.
As I got older, the emotional ramifications of these morning encounters became clearer, especially after coming to understand my neurodiversity. Being autistic added layers to the experience, intensifying the sensory unease and the emotional longing for empathy and validation. Yet, my autism isn’t the root of the issue; it’s a lens through which the importance of compassion, acceptance, and mutual respect in any relationship is magnified.
The years have offered perspective, not just on those crappy mornings but on the nature of our bond and the emotional distance that began to grow early on. It’s too bad my mother will likely never acknowledge the complexities of our interactions, the missed opportunities for connection, and the impact of seemingly small moments on my emotional development.
Reflecting on this experience now, I see it as emblematic of the bigger challenges we faced in our relationship. The brush, the knots, the silent battles over something as simple as hair—they were early signs of a divide and a lack of empathy, a pattern that, over time, became too ingrained to overcome.
These memories aren’t easy to think of or write about. They bring up a mix of sorrow, frustration, and a wish for a relationship that was different. But they also represent my continuous desire to get to know the real me, to identify and recognize my own needs, and to learn how to advocate for them.
The distance between us, both emotional and physical, has given me space to heal, grow, and comprehend that responsiveness and mutual respect are nonnegotiable in any meaningful relationship. It’s also taught me the importance of self-advocacy, of making my needs known, and of not settling for relationships that leave me feeling unseen and unheard.
This narrative is more than a recounting of childhood discomfort; it’s a reflection on the impact of our early relationships on our emotional development, on the importance of communication and kindness, and the long journey to healing. As I share this particular story, I’m not dwelling on the past but offering insight into the complex interplay of actions, emotions, and relationships. It’s a reminder that even the smallest moments can have lasting impacts on our lives, shaping our awareness of ourselves and our expectations of others.
Oh yeah, I haven’t had long hair since 1995. I convinced dear ol’ Mom that my hair needed to be cut short because we were getting ready to PCS to Hawaii, and long hair would cause me to overheat there. She knew I became nauseous and sometimes passed out from being too hot. But just like that, she agreed. Had I known it’d be that easy, I’d have found an irrefutable reason to stop the torture long before then.
The brush? The day before my hair went bye-bye, my mother and I had our last brushing session. She was extra terrible. Then she left for work. As soon as the front door closed, I took a hammer to the brush, smashing it to bits on the concrete patio out back. Then flushed the pieces down the toilet.
Later that day, we had plumbing issues and the pieces of brush showed up in the toilet. I got grounded, but it was totally worth it.
Brushed aside but not forgotten,
— Autistic Ang
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Such a relatable piece, thank you for your words x