Reality

I would like to write you a letter that you can understand, an explanation of why I can't see you this week.

I don't know how to write in terms that you will comprehend. I don't know how to describe your behavior in language specific enough for you to remember instances of offense and general enough for you to put into practice the next time you feel like lashing out.

I'd like to describe to you what I don't want, but I think more important is a narrative of how I do want you to treat me.

Part of facing reality, I suppose, is acknowledging the fact that I have to spell out for you what is kind and acceptable behavior and what is rude and intolerable. Even though, as my mother, you hold a position which would normally imply that you grasp concepts of respect and individuation, I have to recognize your stunted emotional state.

I have to accept that you don't see your behavior as abuse. If you did see it as abuse, I want to think that you would stop humiliating me, shaming me for having boundaries. I want to think that you would treat me with dignity.

But as I face reality, I am at a loss for words when it comes to explaining how I'd like you to show me respect. How can I write in unmistakable verbiage and then guard against your oft-repeated statement, "I just can't do anything right with you"? Or, your other passive aggressive remarks such as, "You don't want me to say anything about ____" and "I can't ask you about anything."

I keep checking my email to see if you've written me an apology for your most recent abusive actions, but I don't know if an apology is going suffice.

Instead of saying you're sorry for a specific offense, I would like you to change the way you view me. I am not an extension of you, I am not someone whose inner thoughts and feelings you are entitled to know.

But I can't change you or your perspective, anymore than you can change me or mine. I can wish that you would let me be myself, and I can dream about a day when you would honor my individuality; but the way I see it, I can only do two things with regard to you: I can set boundaries with you that feel appropriate for self-care and self-protection, and I can also try to describe to you how I'd like to be treated.

I can't control your tearfulness, your expressions of hurt and anger, or your humiliating gestures and impersonations of me. I can, however, remove myself from your presence, and I can continue to work toward a position of inner strength so that unavoidable interactions with you in the future will not affect me as my last encounter with you did.

I'm almost wondering if I should wait for you to reach out to me with an apology, rather than rushing to write you a letter of assurance that I love you and want to work things out with you.  I do want to work things out, but I can't continue to take responsibility for your emotions. I can't continue to be your mother.

Maybe at some point I will explain how I'd like you to show me respect, but in the meantime, I'm going to go about my life and try not to worry about you. I have to keep choosing separation from you because I don't see any other way to climb out of my depression.

I wish I didn't feel so exhausted thinking about all this.