When my daughter came home from school one day, she shared a surprising fact with her friend: “I have four cousins.” Her friend, curious, asked for their names. My first grader eagerly listed the children of my spouse’s brother and the kids of our close family friends, whom she affectionately calls Auntie and Uncle. Notably absent from her list were my brother’s children, who, despite being her actual cousins, were not mentioned. This omission was a reflection of my estrangement from my brother and his family—a relationship that simply doesn’t exist due to my own choices.
Similarly, I have not communicated with my father for years. The last correspondence I received from him was a letter, in which he admitted he never wished to be a father. He expressed remorse for his disinterest in my life and mentioned that he had found “The Lord.” He hoped for my forgiveness, but I still grapple with whether I can truly forgive the years of his physical abuse and his failure as a parent. While I have let go of much of that pain, I often revisit his letter, tracing the pen’s indentations on the paper. Those marks are not painful; instead, they serve as a reminder of my healing journey.
The only family member who remains in my life is my mother. However, if it weren’t for the guilt of surviving, I might have distanced myself from her long ago. My children have developed a bond with their grandmother, and when she visits, her affection flows abundantly. She brings an array of treats from the dollar store and spends hours reading with them snuggled by her side. My kids know only unconditional love, unaware of the tumultuous environment I grew up in, thus they have no reason to question their affection for her.
Unfortunately, my feelings towards my mother are complicated; I struggle to even say I love her. She embodies reminders of my past—of all that I have tried to release. She triggers painful memories, leading me to repeatedly detach for my own emotional safety. The damage feels irreparable, yet she remains a significant figure in my life.
I often describe my relationship with my mother as complicated. She has been both a victim and a perpetrator in her role as my parent. Her own experiences of abuse, endured at the hands of her father and my dad, were never acknowledged. Consequently, her wounds never healed properly; she became the person she is today due to her fractured sense of self and diminished capacity for healthy love.
My mother never inflicted physical harm, but her inaction left me vulnerable to my father’s abuse. She failed to sever ties with those who hurt me, which signified an acceptance of my suffering. Although she tried to protect me by demanding my father cease his abusive behavior, he continued. When I confided in her about my sibling’s sexual abuse, she was upset but remained unable to sever connections with family, prioritizing their relationship over my well-being. I complied with her requests to maintain civility, even sitting next to my abuser at family gatherings.
She now acknowledges her past mistakes and claims she would have acted differently had she known better. However, much of her newfound understanding stems from the boundaries I’ve established and the lessons I’ve shared through my own therapeutic journey. While she has offered apologies, they do not absolve her of the harm she caused. Her continual need for my emotional support is overwhelming; she often looks to me for her happiness.
Her requests for forgiveness leave me puzzled. I am unsure of what that word means in the context of my parents. My healing has come from letting go and saying goodbye. The most challenging aspect of our dynamic is my attempts to communicate my feelings, which she seems unable or unwilling to comprehend. My efforts to set boundaries feel futile, as they appear to be in a foreign language to her.
At what point does my responsibility to help her understand end? When does the balance shift between my kindness and my quest for freedom? Despite my emotional growth, I often feel as though I am still racing to catch up with her. She clings to nostalgic memories of my childhood, while I strive to dispel the shadows of those ghosts.
My mother is not a bad person; rather, she is an unhealthy one. As long as she remains in my life, I too struggle with my own health. I have tried to change her, but it is not my job to do so. I have sought forgiveness but find myself at a loss on how to achieve it.
The time has come for me to let go.
In summary, navigating a complicated relationship with parents can be an emotionally taxing experience. It often involves grappling with feelings of love, resentment, and the challenge of setting boundaries. While understanding and forgiveness may be sought, the journey to healing often requires distancing oneself from toxicity for personal well-being.