My mom and I took some more brave steps at facing some pain this past week.
There’s still a lot to do, and a lot to accept.
Before going into more details, I want to say that the need for her to project some of her experience onto me can be as disturbing as it is profound.
At one point in the last year, she described her fear of my rage. She framed it in sensational terms for maximum impact. She referred to public accounts of sons against their mothers.
She is not stupid. She knows what rage is. She knows how it can be expressed. Most people do.
Her stating things in this way, was in some ways provocative. It cast me in the role of someone that had no ability to reflect and cast herself in the role of someone helpless. In doing so, she unconsciously continues the interaction that has been so confusing.
I understand for how long I have kept silent and avoided any impulse to betray the difficult and secret dynamic we have shared. I am familiar with the fear and shame that get me going. Since facing all that has happened, I have come further than that. There is more to know than this kind of despair.
Having the support from others and within myself has enabled me to speak from a place that is stronger and more authentically empowered. Last week I finally told her that she has looked to me for comfort my whole life, in ways that have kept us apart. It was just a beginning.
Would like to hear any thoughts from fellow survivors who have known what it is like living with endless rage.
Lose the drama; life is a poem.