Confrontation
Dear Mom,
When I think about you, I feel bad. I’ve grown up. I’m no longer a child. I remember things from my childhood as if they happened to someone else. And, most of the time, these memories make me ashamed. I recall, especially, those things I did in defiance of authority. And I’m “glad” I did those things (because now *I* am the authority).
I remember you the wrong way, too. I think of those things I accepted as normal when I was enmeshed in family and forced to “love” out of guilt and fear of abandonment. And those things don’t seem so normal to me anymore. I don’t love. But I don’t feel guilty.
Worse: I critique my life. I am critical. So when those criticisms I voiced in my youth come to mind, I embrace them. But in this way, I make you out to be much less perfect than I thought you were when I was younger. I’ve developed an “adult” relationship with you (with your memory) but I’ve lost a mother.
Oh sure, I “cry” (whine about things, anyway). I wish that someone would clean up after me, set out my clothes, and tell me I can do anything I set my mind to. I’m “hungry” all the time: Nothing satisfies me like mother’s cooking. Food doesn’t taste the same when I have to prepare it. Nothing simply “appears” on the table in front of me. And the dirty dishes don’t disappear and magically clean themselves while I’m “outside playing”.
There are no surprises left. Having a birthday just means getting old. Calls and cards from family just seem like traps that aim to draw me back into family squabbles. Missed phonecalls and other unfulfilled obligations just make me worry that time, too, will pass me by …
I will never “find my way home”! My family will die! I’ll be all alone! And medical (and funeral) costs will eventually bring about my own emotional, physical, and financial ruin!
Love,
Your Son
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