I took my elderly mother in, thinking it was the right thing to do. Now, I’m filled with regret, yet I can’t send her back. I’m embarrassed about what people might say.
Today, I need to put my story on paper. It’s so personal, so weighty, it feels like a stone on my chest. I need advice—wise and thoughtful—to find a way out of the mire I’ve thrown myself into.
We all have our troubles and challenges. We should learn to help rather than judge, offering a hand when someone is drowning in despair and can’t see a way out. No one is immune—one day you judge, the next you’re trapped by fate.
I brought my mother to live with me. She’s turned 80 and used to live in a village outside Canterbury, in an old house with a sagging roof. She couldn’t manage on her own anymore—her health was failing, her legs giving out, her hands shaking. I watched her fade away there alone and decided to bring her into my city apartment. But I had no idea of the burden I was taking on or how drastically it would change my life.
At first, things went as smoothly as could be. Mum settled into my Nottingham apartment, and we maintained a semblance of harmony. She didn’t meddle in my affairs, kept the noise down—mostly stayed in the room I lovingly and carefully set up for her. I did everything to keep her comfortable: a soft bed, a warm blanket, a small TV on her bedside table. All she needed to do was venture out to the bathroom, toilet, or kitchen—I tried to surround her with comfort. I looked after her diet, cooking healthy meals as doctors recommended: no fats, minimal salt, everything steamed. The medications she needed—expensive but essential—I bought with my own salary. Her pension was next to nothing, not worth mentioning.
After a few months, though, it all started to unravel. Mum grew tired of city life—monotonous and grey, like the concrete walls around us. She began dictating her ways, arguing over every little thing, blowing up minor issues. Whether it was the dust I didn’t clean, the soup I didn’t cook right, or forgetting to buy her favorite tea—nothing was right; everything irked her. Then came the emotional manipulations—sighing dramatically, saying she had it better in the village than in my “prison.” Her words cut like knives, but I held my tongue, tightened my jaw, and tried not to react to provocation.
My patience wore thin. I was exhausted by endless complaints, the shouting, her constant dissatisfaction. So much so that I started taking calmatives to dull my nerves, finding myself loitering outside after work, struggling to face going home. Behind the door awaited not comfort, but a battlefield—a fight I lost every day. My life turned into a nightmare with no escape.
Sending Mum back to the village? Not an option. She wouldn’t survive there—the house is falling apart, no heat, no amenities. And how could I leave her vulnerable? What would people say? I imagine their judgmental stares, hearing whispers behind my back: “The daughter abandoned her mother… What shame!” I’m too ashamed to even think about it—ashamed in front of others, and myself. But my strength is gone.
The situation is like a tight knot I can’t untie. I’m worn out, empty, lost. How do I live with her under the same roof? How do I deal with her stubbornness, this wall of complaints and grievances? How do I calm her without losing myself? I’m at a dead end, sinking deeper into hopelessness every day.
Have you been through anything like this? How do you coexist with elderly parents whose personalities strike like sharp stones, shattering your patience? How do you stay sane when a loved one becomes your toughest ordeal? Please share with me—I need some light at the end of this dark tunnel.
