I’ve taken my elderly mother into my home, and now I regret it, though I can’t send her back. I feel ashamed before my acquaintances.
Today, I’m pouring my heart out on paper, sharing a personal, heavy story that’s weighing on me like a stone on my chest. I need wise and considered advice on how to get out of the mire I’ve landed myself in.
Everyone has their struggles and challenges. We must learn not to judge others but to offer a helping hand when someone is drowning in despair without seeing a way out. No one is immune to such situations—today you judge, tomorrow you might find yourself in the same predicament.
I took my mother in. She’s turned 80 and used to live in a village in a tumble-down house with a sagging roof. She could no longer manage by herself—her health was declining, her legs giving way, and her hands trembling. Watching her fading away on her own, I decided to bring her to my city apartment. But I hadn’t realized the weight I was taking on or how drastically my life would change.
At first, everything went smoothly. My mother settled into my three-bedroom flat in Bath and seemed to keep everything in order. She didn’t interfere with my affairs, wasn’t noisy—she stayed in the room I lovingly set up for her. I made sure she was comfortable: a soft bed, a warm blanket, a little TV on a table. Her only need to leave was to use the bathroom, toilet, or kitchen—I aimed to surround her with comfort. I watched her diet, cooking only what was recommended by doctors: no fats, minimal salt, everything steamed. The expensive, necessary medicines I bought from my own salary—her pension was a pittance.
But after a few months, everything went downhill. Mum got bored with city life—dull and monotonous like the concrete walls around us. She began imposing her own rules and picking fights over trivial matters. Complaints about undusted surfaces, improperly made soup, or forgetting her favorite tea mounted up. Everything irritated her, and then came the guilt trips—she sighed theatrically, claiming life in the village was better than in this “prison.” Her words cut like a knife, but I bit my tongue and tried not to react to provocations.
My patience was wearing thin. I was exhausted from her constant criticism, her yelling, her perpetual discontent. Eventually, I started taking tranquillizers to steady my nerves. I’d stand outside my building after work, unable to make myself go home. Beyond the door awaited not comfort, but a battlefield where I lost daily. My life had turned into a nightmare with no escape.
Sending my mother back to the village? Out of the question. She wouldn’t survive—the house is half-collapsed, with no heat or amenities. How could I abandon her to fate? And what would people say? I can already see the disapproving looks, hear the whispers behind my back: “A daughter who abandoned her mother… Such shame!” I’m ashamed even to think about it, ashamed before others and myself. But I’m out of strength.
The situation feels like a tight knot I can’t untie. I’m worn out, empty, and confused. How do I live under the same roof? How do I deal with her stubbornness, this wall of grievances and resentments? How do I appease her without losing myself? I’m at a dead end, sinking deeper into this despair by the day.
Have you ever been through something similar? How did you cope with elderly relatives whose personalities were as sharp as stones wearing down your patience? How do you stay sane when the one you love becomes your greatest challenge? Please share—I need a light at the end of this dark tunnel.
