The concept of the mom makes a lot of sense. When I was old enough to go to college and get a therapist I told my therapist right away, without knowing anything about my condition except that I wanted to die, that the fact that I was able to hate my mother more than I hated myself is why I am in therapy rather than prison for being a psychotic killer. I adored my mother--infants and small children have no other choice. At that point we are truly dependent on the mother for survival. I only began to understand this about 10 years ago when I was with family and we watched an old home movie that included footage of my parents right after I was born. I was about 2 weeks old and in a reclined carrier on a table top. My parents were standing behind me, smiling and talking. There is no sound on the film, but apparently someone offstage said something funny to my mother because she suddenly burst into laughter and she is very beautiful. Baby me, my head turned immediately toward her laughter. I followed her beautiful face and would not take my 2 week old eyes off of her. When I saw this footage, I sobbed. Because I realized only then the fact that I adored my mother from birth, as all infants must. But this was followed by years of various kinds of torment. I never accepted the fact that we were two separate entities and that my mother was her own person. I always kept looking for the sound of her laughter, all my life. My baby brother was born when I was only 18 months old and my first memory is of him being brought home from the hospital. I still see in my mind my mother coming in the house with a white bundle on her shoulder, and I screamed. I became hysterical and was inconsolable. Later, when the torture of public school began, and she made me a misfit, and I experienced racism on top of that, I felt even more consciously that she had betrayed me by being a separate person with her own life. Kids at school told me my mother hated me because I was ugly. Before this, I had never considered that she hated me or that I could hate her. So I went home from school and asked her if she thought I was pretty. She replied, "you're all right, I guess." So I could not argue against what the kids at school said. My mother hated me, so I would hate her back. The emotional energy I invested in hating her kept me going. I think the opposite is much more common, as you said, the child is not conscious of many of these feelings. But I hated my mother with a passion, and began plotting ways to kill her. When I had not thought of a good plan by the time I was 9 or 10, and then I learned what the word suicide meant, I realized that killing myself was the better solution.

Today I think of my T as a positive image, and when she fails me I think of my grandmother. I was lucky. I was lucky because I had a grandmother who loved me and stood up for me when she could. She cradled me and touched me and sang to me after my mom decided she was too busy for that sort of thing. So I am very lucky. My grandmother is no longer alive but she lived to 96 and I had a great deal of quality time with her. So I am still here, and I am not a psychotic killer. Maybe I got a bit off topic; I'm sorry if this is not helpful.