- After years of estrangement, Bliss attended her mother’s funeral and was stunned to discover she had been leading a cult-like religious group
- Followers viewed her mother as a spiritual leader, and one mourner even blamed and ‘cursed’ Bliss
- Bliss is now penning a novel, Cult Momma inspired by the moment at the funeral where ‘followers’ thought she was her mother
Here Bliss Goldstein, 69 tells her story in her own words.
My husband, Dan, by my side, I felt all eyes on me as we made our way into my mother’s funeral.
Some in the 70-strong crowd looked like they’d seen a ghost.
Then 60, with my white curls and tall stature, I looked just like my mother, Vivian*, who I’d called Ma.
We’d been estranged for years.
A strange electric charge seemed to buzz in the air, as Dan and I took our seats at the front.
Ma’s husband was sitting on the stage at the front of the room, and next to him on the dais lay strips of white cloth adorned with blue Stars of David.
On top of one of the Jewish prayer shawls sat a painting of Jesus.
‘Join me in singing Vivian’s favourite song,’ her husband requested.
It was an upbeat song praising Jesus.
What is going on? I wondered.
We’d been raised Jewish – why were we singing about Jesus?
I’d grown up in the United State’s deep south with Ma, my dad and younger brother.
Ma, a model with long legs and perfectly applied make-up, prized looks over everything and, with my overbite and unruly brown curls, mine were never up to her standard.
Nothing was ever good enough.
I coped by succeeding.
If I was top of my high school class and winning academic awards maybe my mother would be proud. Of course, nothing worked.
Once during an argument when I was 17, with her syrupy Southern drawl she’d spat, ‘I’ll never love you as much as your brother.’
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Her sharp tongue rarely extended to my little brother, or to my father, who was smitten with her.
After school I went to college and worked as a journalist.
In 1984 I met my husband, Dan, also a writer.
We married in 1986 and raised two children.
For many years, I had monthly calls with Ma.
Talking non-stop about herself, she rarely asked me even one question about myself.
‘Don’t you want to know about your granddaughter?’ I asked, fed up she hadn’t mentioned our new baby.
After a long pause, she ignored me before launching into another tale about her life.
She just wants an audience, I realised.
By 45, I’d had enough.
I told my mother not to contact me.
Fifteen years later, in 2017, my brother called.
Our mother had dementia and was dying.
READ MORE: Escaping a cult: How Briell rebuilt her life
‘Will you talk to her one last time?’ he asked.
I decided I would. I wanted to be the type of person who could forgive, but as the call connected, my heart raced.
Her second husband answered. Ma had left my heartbroken father for him 30 years earlier.
As he handed the phone to my mother, 88, I heard her voice for the first time in over a decade.
I’d written a list of all the things I wanted to thank her for.
I said thank you for teaching me how to talk to strangers – I’d learned by watching her walk into any room like she owned it.
And for my love of reading.
I wished her well for the next part of her journey.
‘I love you,’ I said, a knot in my throat.
Then, out of the blue and clear as day she replied, ‘I love you too.’
She passed a few days later, in May 2017, on Mother’s Day.
Now, weeks later, as the ceremony ended, people from the crowd came to pay their respects.
But one woman took my hands in hers and leaned in close.
‘You really hurt your mother,’ she hissed.
Shocked, I tried to pull my hands from hers, but she only grasped tighter.
‘I curse you, and every year on Mother’s Day, I’m going to go to your mother’s grave, and I’m gonna curse you,’ she said.
‘Every bad thing that happens in your life, will be because of this.’
Dan whisked me away, reeling.
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In the weeks after, through conversations with people my mother had ‘led’, I learned that sometime in the late 90s she’d started her own religion.
The cult was a mash up of Judaism, Jesus and herself.
Those who believed in her called her ‘Momma.’
She conducted services and told her followers who to marry and what jobs to pursue.
She even gave them new names.
She’d found a way to summon the adoration she so craved.
She had control, something she was never going to have over me.
Then, three months later, my brother called about Ma’s will.
I have two natural born children, neither of whom are my inheritors, it read.
I was shocked to learn that she had left my brother a small sum, and the rest to the cult’s handyman.
I couldn’t help it, I started laughing. Of course she did, I figured – her last dig, even in death.
I’ve been through all the phases of grief and, ironically, I feel like I have a good relationship with Ma now that she’s dead.
I love her and she can’t hurt me anymore.
Now, I’m working on a fictional novel titled Cult Momma, inspired by that moment when the cult thought I was my mother at her funeral.
Weaving my life experiences into the story has been both confronting and cathartic.
Nine years on, I feel uncomfortable that my mother must have said awful things about me to her followers to convince them I needed a curse, and that hurts.
But for me to keep my sanity, I have forgiven her.
I live a good life, and I’m happy.
I’m blessed to have my wonderful husband, Dan, 74, and my loving family.
For me, the real curse would be if I let hatred rule my life.
And that I refuse.
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