Accepting Changing and Ending Relationships

This has been a tough one for me, probably because I've always had a deep-seated belief that no one will stay. Darrin has definitely proved me wrong, and my children seem to continue to enjoy spending time with me even as adults. Covid-19 has created difficulty in maintaining relationships outside of my family. We tried, at first. But there was too much risk, too much unknown.

So now that Covid is dying down (sort of), I'm taking steps to see who is still there. Miraculously, some are still interested in reviving those relationships. It hasn't happened yet, but slowly, I'll take steps to reconnect with them.

And that brings me to Tolkien boy. 

This is a difficult one. There was a time when TB and I spoke daily, shared our lives, and expressed hopes, dreams, and ideas. He was my go-to person when I was sad, happy, bored, whatever. It took many years to establish that trust, on my side, at least, but once in place, I loved every moment.

I noticed things changing about five years ago. I tried to talk about it with TB. I invented reasons for us to meet regularly. I tried to check in every couple of days, at least. I had worked hard to learn to trust him. I was unwilling to let that go.

It's one of the reasons I'm currently in therapy. I need help with the adjustment. I want TB to be where he's happiest. I want him to have the freedom to change. I want to support his decision to be less close, less connected. I want that for him. Not for me.

Were it up to me, our close relationship would continue indefinitely. It's not up to me.

So I've been talking to my therapist about it. She's given me some food for thought.

1. I would never want someone to remain in a relationship when they want something different. 

2. I need to think of the benefits of having a lighter, less close friendship. 

3. If I truly love TB, as I say I do, eventually, I will be happy that he is happy, even if it doesn't involve me, personally.

For now, I'm good with number one. I'm working hard on number two, and I'm trying to think about how I can be happy that TB is okay without me, even while grieving the loss of a relationship that was paramount to my personal healing and one that brought me incredible joy. It's not easy.

I haven't discussed all this with TB yet, but in fairness, I probably need to. He won't like it, but neither will he like it if I make assumptions about him that are inaccurate, so communication is proabably a good idea. 

I've been feeling some depression about this yesterday and today. I think part of this is because I was in Laramie last weekend. My sister's home was destroyed by a fire last week, so we went to help do some salvage. It was hard work, and very emotional. Also, I had a reaction to the fire retardant that left me struggling to breath that night. And my visit with my parents the following day was also difficult. A couple of years ago, I would probably talk about it with TB. I don't feel that's appropriate to do anymore. I talked with my therapist about it. She's helpful, but sometimes talking about it with someone who really cares about you makes a huge difference. 

I am resilient. My therapist reiterated that. She said I would do the work necessary to allow the feelings, take time to grieve, and rally myself. There are other people who care about me, who are interested in my life. I can turn to them, and I know this. I will be all right.

Accepting Past Abuse

Accept that I was an abused child. I was. I knew this. There was no denying it. But I did not want to BE an abused child. I wanted to be cherished and loved and protected. That cannot happen. I was not. But accepting this does not say anything about ME. It says a whole lot about the people who raised me.

Parenting does not come with a manual. That's not to say there aren't a million books that have been written about how best to raise children, but not all of those are correct, probably because parenting is complex and every child is different. The most emotionally healthy person in the world can still be a terrible parent. Parenting is pretty easy to mess up. 

However, if someone comes from a background of abuse, it's not unlikely that that person will also become an abuser. It happens all the time. 

My mother was the child of an abusive, alcoholic father. She has a lot of issues that were never resolved. I and my siblings bore the brunt of this. We didn't deserve to be abused. Accepting that we were abused does not change that. It also doesn't mean that we're somehow less because we were abused.

Understanding that I was raised by a woman who lived with brain damage due to the severe abuse she suffered helps me understand her erratic behavior. Her parenting practices were completely dominated by fear. She was afraid of losing control - even though she was never really in control. She was afraid of making mistakes - even through most of what she did, discipline-wise, was definitely a mistake. She was afraid of being judged by other parents if her children misbehaved - not something anyone can avoid, really, and definitely not something she could do anything about. She was afraid of not being perfect - an insidious trap to fall into because on one is.

Understanding that because of the damage she suffered, she did not have the emotional skills to raise children in a healthy manner helps me to understand that my mother is not monstrous. She was in a situation that she had no idea how to navigate. She reacted with anger and frustration. And somehow, in that addled brain of hers, she convinced herself that everything we did was designed to infuriate and thwart her. She decided that we were rotten to the core. Somehow, she was able to rationalize her behavior based on what she believed about our behavior. 

She didn't understand that we were children. She didn't, and still does not, understand children.

My mother was not a good mother.

Having said all that, I do believe she tried. And I think, as much as she was able, she loved us.

She did things for us that she wished had been done for her. 

She read to us every night. My world was filled with a love of stories, poetry, history, and science. 

She made certain we all had music lessons. My world was filled with piano lessons, choir, orchestra, and band. I was given the foundation that made me a professional musician.

She sang. I loved listening to her sing. I have spent my life singing.

She taught us to clean house, do laundry, sew, knit, crochet, bake, preserve food, and make dinner. We weren't always willing learners, but we are capable, self-sufficient adults because of it.

She played games with us. I loved that.

She painted. My mother loved art. She was better than she knew. I loved her paintings.

She took classes throughout my life, and always assumed I would be a college graduate. She, herself, graduated from college when I was 24. She earned her masters degree ten years later. I was amazed by her determination to constantly learn.

I grew up believing my mother could do anything. She was creative, energetic, and so incredibly intelligent.

She also physically, emotionally, and mentally abused each of her children. In retrospect, however, my siblings have all acknowledged that she targeted me, specifically, most of the time. I used to wonder why. I no longer care. Abuse is abuse. Whether it is more or less does not diminish the damage it does.

What I have come to understand as I accept all of these things is that, while they each affected me differently and helped to shape the person I have become, ultimately, I am the one who gets to decide how much power they have. I choose where I will dwell. 

I was an abused child. I am no longer an abused child. I am ready to allow that part of me to heal, to cherish the child that I was, and to be grateful for the adult I have become. 

I suppose if there is any triumph to be had in my story, it comes because I took the steps necessary to ascertain that the abuse cycle ended with me. I got the help I needed so abuse was not perpetuated when I had my own children. I will never claim to be a perfect parent - such a thing does not exist. But I will claim that I worked hard to build a home where mistakes could be learned from in a healthy manner, good boundaries were in place, and love could prevail. Sometimes I was better at it than other. My children learned that their mistakes could always be forgiven, and they also needed to learn to forgive me when I messed up. That's part of the beauty of being human.