Not like you

You mocked me again. You mocked me and showed me in your angry way how "evil" I am to you.

You said that when I say "I don't want to talk about that," I give you a look, and then you demonstrated, throwing your head back and rolling your eyes like a dead cat in rigor mortis.

I stood up for myself, knowing I was completely right to maintain boundaries with you. I told you that I would not let you talk to me that way, that I would leave the table if you didn't stop.

You wanted to talk about PTSD with me. You wrote a question about it on a note before you left for church, and when I read it, I could hardly believe you'd have the nerve to talk about that with me - you, the perpetrator of my trauma.

But you brought it up when you got home from church, and when I said no in a kind but firm way, you shut down. You wouldn't talk with me about anything. I tried to start conversations with you about your friends, about what you enjoy, about your upcoming vacation. One word answers were my reward.

So I confronted you. "I'm trying pretty hard here," I said, "but you're not meeting me halfway." I was matter of fact, not accusatory, just trying to show you I cared. I felt so anxious to please you.

"I know," you said. And then you got upset and started your angular impression of me. I can still see it in my mind, etched irrevocably in that moment of anxiety. You were wrong to do that to me.

You were wrong to show me how ugly I am to you, how I disgusting I appear in your eyes.

"You used to mock me like that, Mom," I said, almost shaking, "and I'd ask you to stop, but you'd yell, 'I'M THE MOTHER!' and keep doing it. I will not let you do that to me again."

You apologized later, and I thanked you for that. I didn't really forgive you, though.

I don't know what forgiveness means, but I wish I could move on from this pain of being hurt by you one more time. I wish you would treat me kindly.

I wish you would, but I know you won't, not if I spend more than a day with you. This time, even the first day was stressful. You started to cry when I changed my clothes to go for a walk.

"Oh," you said with a pouting face and shrugged shoulders, "I so wanted to take you to Costco and get you what you need."

Before I could say anything to let you know I'd be happy to go with you, you choked back tears and said, "I feel like I can never ask you for anything." Then you let out a sob and fled to your room to collect yourself.

And that was your good behavior. I can't take it anymore.
 
I'm almost inclined to put a moratorium on spending more than 24 hours with you. I did that with phone conversations, you know - well, hopefully you don't know. I decided to keep our phone calls under half an hour so that I don't open myself up to you too much.

I think it would be wise to do the same with in-person visits. Therefore, I will not spend  more than one night at your house, unless I absolutely can't avoid it.

Since I need your financial help, I'll continue to communicate with you, but here on out, your home is nothing more to me than a hotbed of emotional turmoil.

I slept till noon today because I couldn't get out of bed. Being with you sapped me of energy and left me fearing again that I will be like you.

I fear you, I despise how you treat me, and I hate that I remember everything you say when you're angry at me.

If I could avoid seeing you again, I would.

Of course, I can't avoid it, so I assert that I am not evil, that I am not ungrateful, and that I am a kind person. I assert that I am not like you.