The Good Left Undone

The epic disappointment that is conversation and relation with my mother. Such classic push, pull, neglect. I see this sickness, this system for exactly what it is. I’ve been in therapy long enough to do that. I’ve spent enough time in quiet with myself to do that. A friend asks me today if I’m pulling away from my family. I think that I am. I can’t say that I’m not. It doesn’t feel healthy or fruitful to be around them, to talk to them. I can’t fake the "family" anymore. The veil has been cast off and I see this family for exactly what it is. I can’t banter with my mom anymore. I can’t make snarky comments with my dad. They don’t even feel like mine. Maybe they never were. It all feels forced. She’s been calling me for the last month, not vice versa. I let her talk. I may offer a thought or two. She talks and talks. About my grandmother and about baby cousins and my father’s doctor appointments. Finally she’ll say, "oh that’s enough about me, how are you." Right now I am the following: growing in painful short bursts that make my heart scream, learning about the depths and sadnesses of my childhood, grieving all of the losses I’ve had in and outside of myself, learning about trauma and refining my clinical area of focus, making real, healthy friendships for the first time in my life, living my own life, learning who the fuck I am, being genuine and attempting to maintain continuity in my life, exploring the depths of me so I can help heal others. What I say to her is, "I’m fine." I attempt to tell her about the psychosis conference I went to, she says, "oh, well that sounds nice." No mom. It wasn’t "nice." It was comforting to be in the company of compassionate brilliant human beings, it was heart wrenching to hear clients’ stories, it was parting-of-the-clouds hopeful to learn about new treatments in other countries. She would know this if she let me talk, if she engaged me in conversation about it all, about any of it. Instead she responds with, "oh… well your father said to tell you about the article on the dollar." She "offered" to come see me in New York. Offering: a handout, a gift, something you provide to someone who needs it at your own great personal sacrifice. Offer. She didn’t say oh I have to come see you. She said the offer still stands, and proceeded to list ever caveat that I could potentially throw in so that she wouldn’t have to come. Well if you’re too busy, if that doesn’t work for you, I just wanted to let you know I would. Thanks for your due diligence, mom. It’s as if I have to evolve past my pain with them to have any kind of relationship. I’m not there yet. I can play the scenario in my head, and hypothetical me can say, "you know it sounds like you aren’t invested in coming to see me, that you’re offering like you’d offer to lend someone your car, out of kindness." The mandatory politeness of southern women. The real me says, okay we’ll see, let me check my calendar. No comment on how she’s cleverly flipped the script and now it’s my decision to tell her to come or go. Hypothetical me says, it seems that if you want to see someone you make it a point to make that happen, not provide them with excuses of why they should say you shouldn’t come. Real me catches words in her throat and chokes them down because she’s afraid to lose the only mom she has now, she already lost one.

I’m terrified to confront my parents because they’re the only two people in the world who belong to me. But I can’t move on. I’m skipping thanksgiving this year, possibly Christmas because I can’t look at them. The only thing left to do is cry and scream and let it out into the air. Pull it out from under the rug and let everyone experience it, sit with it. All the pain and torture and abuse and sorrow. I can’t be near them when now that I know it’s there. I can’t stand the disgenuineness of it all. How can they look at me knowing what they did. Maybe that’s why my dad doesn’t look at me much anymore. So I’m in a holding pattern. Can’t stay, can’t fight, can’t leave. I’m just waiting. For the dam to break. For me to lose my fucking mind at a family dinner. I don’t know what exactly. A system can only handle so much chaos and uncertainty before it destroys itself. But then it is capable of rebirth. I suppose the fear is that no one will be interested in combusting with me, or they will but irreparably. Even if I don’t talk to them, I can’t lose them. My only people. The only people who can’t forget about me or leave me, I don’t want to break them, but I deserve better than this. I deserve to have real relationships with my parents.