Lifestyle
By Jordan Wells
Updated: April 16, 2018
Originally Published: April 16, 2018
One day after school, my daughter turned to her friend and said, “I have four cousins.”
Curious, her friend asked for their names. My first grader named her uncle’s children and the kids of close family friends, whom she’s affectionately called Auntie and Uncle since she could speak. However, she didn’t mention my brother’s children, who are indeed her cousins. This omission stemmed from my lack of connection with my brother and his family. I simply don’t discuss him, which leaves little for her to say.
The same goes for my father. Our last interaction was a letter I received years ago. In it, he confessed that he never wanted to be a father, expressed regret for losing interest in me, and spoke of finding “The Lord” who had forgiven him. He hoped I could do the same.
While I can’t say I’ve truly forgiven him for the years of physical abuse or his overall failure as a father, I found some solace in his letter. It validated my feelings, and since then, I haven’t reached out to him. Occasionally, I pull out that letter, feeling the pen marks on the paper. Unlike the painful memories of his touch, these marks remind me of my healing journey.
The only family member still present in my life is my mother. If it weren’t for the guilt I feel as a survivor, I would have distanced myself from her long ago. However, my children adore their grandmother, which complicates things further.
When Grandma comes to visit, she showers my kids with affection and an array of knick-knacks from the dollar store. She can read for hours if one of her grandchildren is nestled against her. Despite her need for love, she often drains the emotional resources of those around her. My children, unaware of my past, love her unconditionally.
As for me, my feelings are more complicated. I struggle to like, let alone love, my mother. She embodies reminders of my past, making it difficult for me to heal. I view her as a trigger, and I’ve often needed to detach for my own well-being. The rift feels insurmountable, yet she remains a significant figure in my life.
I often describe my relationship with my mother as complicated. She has played both victim and perpetrator in her role as my parent. Her own history of abuse at the hands of her father and my father was never addressed, leaving her with unresolved wounds. This lack of healing shaped the mother she became—someone unable to love or be loved in a healthy manner.
While she never physically harmed me, she failed to protect me from my father’s abuse. She didn’t cut ties with the person who violated me. Her acceptance of my suffering was a form of complicity in my pain.
She did tell my father to stop abusing me. But he didn’t listen. When I revealed that I had been sexually abused by a family member, she was upset but later asked me to understand her need to maintain family ties, even with my abuser present at family gatherings. I complied, sitting quietly next to the person who hurt me.
Now, she acknowledges that placing me in those situations was wrong. She claims she would act differently if she had the knowledge she possesses today, much of which has been learned through the boundaries I’ve set and the lessons I’ve gleaned from years of therapy.
While she has apologized, her words do not erase her mistakes. Her inability to make healthy choices and protect me cannot simply be overlooked because she claims ignorance. Her dependency on me for emotional support is overwhelming.
She has sought forgiveness, but the concept eludes me when it comes to my parents. I’ve learned to heal by letting go and moving on.
The most challenging aspect of our relationship is that despite my attempts to express my feelings, she remains unable to grasp her responsibility for my pain. I’ve tried to establish boundaries, yet it often feels like we’re speaking different languages. Maintaining these boundaries is uncomfortable for her, which leads me to question where my responsibility ends and my need for freedom begins.
Although I have made significant emotional progress, I still feel tethered to her. She clings to nostalgic memories of my childhood, while I yearn to banish those ghosts.
She isn’t a bad person, but rather an unhealthy one. As long as she remains in my life, I too feel unhealthy.
I’ve attempted to change her for the better, but it isn’t my duty. I’ve tried to forgive, but I’m unsure how to proceed.
It may be time for me to let go.