Is Redemption Possible? Part II

My last conversation with my mom lasted all of seven minutes, in two installments. But even at that, she has had a lasting effect on the six days since then. I want her to have less of an effect on my equilibrium.

How many of mom's judgements of me actually belong in my thought closet?

Last Tuesday evening, she didn't take her long in call #1 to assert, "The family in New York doesn't give a crap about you." I still have no clue how that came up in the conversation!

I took my stand right there, repeating her words back to her. "You are saying they don't give a crap about me?"

I guess she had wanted to say those words a long time. She certainly did not want to rescind them. So, I asked her if she really wanted to believe that statement. Was it kind to say? Was it true? She didn't like those questions.

I've made a commitment not to fight with mom. But I could not I agree with her identification of "those people" (her siblings, for crying out loud), as giving only inferior love. Or that I was an inferior love relationship with my aunts and uncles. NO... the unspoken with nada, is the inferior relationship I have with her. Tuesday I kept mum about my sense of blame, which swings between my feeling of failure and righteous anger at her.

Next stop in our telephone journey. I ask a question I have vowed I will ask each time we talk on the phone, specifically about DAD's health, since he rarely comes to the phone of his own accord. Mom answers, impatiently, "Sure we're fine, dad is fine. I told you we were fine. I would tell you if anything were wrong...." She pauses as a new opportunity presents itself to her creative mind. She reaches deep, finds a place to judge again. "Oh, Zena, now you wouldn't tell us if things were wrong with YOU," she said. "You never do."

"What do you mean mom-- I never tell you about me?" I ask, genuinely interested to see what she could come up with.

"You didn't tell us when you were in the hospital!!!" she says, sounding proud to have some (aging) evidence against me.

Now I am wondering: Did she mean the last time I was in the psych unit, in 2005? Because I didn't tell her about that. During 2004's hospital stay, she couldn't refrain from her need to clutter my head with her OWN paranoid thoughts about who might be listening in on our conversation. Those concerns from her thought closet were not good to put in my own, and were not conducive to my mental health. By 2005, I knew better than to keep my promise to disclose all my vulnerabilities to her. For one, with three thousand miles between us, is it helpful to her to worry? I need the support when I come home and am working to stabilize myself. But no, she was referring back to 2003, over SIX years ago....when my husband was far too busy and concerned to call my mom. One could say, she was SPARED our devastation. Sigh. Do we have to go down that road again, when that was put to bed over five years ago? I guess so.

I tried to step away from argument again, and gently reminded my mom of the importance of staying in the present and letting the past be in the past. (Yeah, like that fits her agenda of coming up with excuses to use against me.) I'm not sure what I said that made her hang up.

Five minutes later, I'm in the kitchen, and she calls back. I answer. I am an optimist, it is my nature. Perhaps it is another chance for redemption?

No, she has called to prove me "wrong" again. I guess it was absolutely necessary for her to be right (and not happy). She snarls at me, waving her sword at my earlier recommendation she try living in the present. "Live in the present. Live in the present. You live a LIE. You haven't done anything FOR Us in the present. You don't care about us (mom and dad)...."


I do not consent to being held in thrall to her guilt (shame) and will not allow her words to lead me back to another place of inferiority, where I will never measure up. I've been evaluating that piece of clothing, and sad myself that we aren't able to have a healthy relationship. Odd that she would pick just that though to club me with, my secret pain I never name.

(Thank goodness for the power and clarity of a good step four. I've already done and inventory and spring cleaning with a loving sponsor and stay up to date on the CURRENT state of my closet. That old rag is one I have been re-evaluating, preparing to toss out, realizing it no longer fits.)

I put her on speakerphone, propped on the cutting board and sang a little song to her, sharing my love for myself. She hangs up.

I would love to have said, "Mom, those are your worn-out thoughts about me. I am not putting them in my closet. I can't afford to feel shame for things I cannot control."

I pray for greater compassion and the right words to say that will tame us both. Next time.

Is Redemption Possible?

I am not responsible for the distance my parents and I live apart. But I could be blamed for not bridging it more often. It would be lots easier if I could forget the decision made fifteen years ago, that I would NEVER fly out West alone again and suffer mom’s abuse (and dad’s tacit consent) without my husband present.

The last opportunity for face-to-face redemption came out of a need that was answered. My mom and dad came to visit in the fall of 2003, in the aftermath of my hospitalization. They spent a week helping me stay tied to reality. While I wanted mom to cheer me on, what I remember most was her silent suffering. Her honesty about feel inept. Her struggles to over-compensate.

There was so much she wanted to do, and somehow I could not let her. She did her best. She got me glasses I am afraid to wear. She took me shopping at Macy’s at a time that I could find nothing that suited me. My son was four at the time. She inadvertently drove him crazy to the point that he told her it was time for her to go home.

I kept the clothes through loyalty, though their style was not mine. I lost weight during the summer her brother W died. When I saw they would never fit again, I gave them away. Only one shirt remains in my closet from that time.

Out of gratitude I’ve stayed in touch and given her all the baubles of understanding and love that she can handle

But it all seems moot. The last words she flung at me by phone were formulated specially to tell me how my life was a lie. That I had given nothing to her and my dad. Nothing.

Likely one day soon, she will call and take the words back. Or try to. Normally I would forgive. But today I feel the stooge and it is time for me to exit this farce, this drama, which has no satisfying resolution.

I guess it is all because, for once I have decided to keep score. I started to do so once I realized she fit the much-maligned BPD diagnoses, and I really needed to decide if what I did for her was really helping.

Our lobby began, uncannily, with her suddenly going into my emotional closet and back to my college years , so she could do my sexual inventory. And do what exactly, reactivate shame? I side-stepped that, and eventually got my words right. “My mistakes are between me and God, mom.”

Next time, it was me who called to share news of the day: a late winter snowstorm enjoyed by her grandson. …. She had nothing to lose I guess, because she told me straight up, “I don’t care.”

It was some days later, she called for the release of apology, and told me she had been short because she had a toothache. I accepted the apology and moved on.

Later in spring my mom decided it was time for her to get honest with me again, about who I really am. “Your life hasn’t amounted to manure,” she said, using the vernacular. I did all I knew how to do. Having made the resolution not to fight any more with her forever, I got out a piece of paper. I became an interviewer, who needed to get my quote right. I read out loud to her as I wrote it down, hands shaking. Her answer contained another expletive, which I dutifully wrote down and read verbatim. What followed, thankfully was the click and a dial tone.

I know, I know, we are supposed to forgive and forget. But I made the choice this time not to excuse her. When she called back days later to make peace, I told her gently what that does to our relationship, and told her about the pattern I had observed. I told her I believed she could change and I would support that. She heard me, because I put her on speakerphone, and that made me sound different enough for her to pay attention.

Well, they say that when one party in a relationship changes, often the party that does not want change will flail and fight.

Each conversation since then, I’ve spoken the truth. That the hurting needs to stop. I get honest, and she gets even.

Not able to face that she hurts me and it is a pattern she needs to change, she wants to leave me holding the bag of garbage taken from her closet, telling me it is mine. All mine.

It all came painfully clear this Monday. I was stunned when I heard her voice, sounding like a cat that had swallowed a baby sparrow . “I raised you right and you turned out wrong.”

Maybe she was joking? This was so absurd it didn’t warrant a rebuttal. I did what I do now, when I am speechless. I repeated her words and she AGREED with them! I was so confused at the total inappropriateness of her trial balloon, that I could only be grateful when she hung up.

I was left with these thoughts: What the F? After all my faith and hard work?

Inferiority, Not in MY closet

My conversation with my mom last night lasted all of 7 minutes, in two installments. But even at that, I am getting fed up , even as she has less effect on my life.

It didn't take her long in call #1 to assert, "The family in New York doesn't give a crap about you."

I took my stand right there, echoed her own words back to her. "You are saying they don't give a __ about me?" She insisted on each word. So, I asked her if she really wanted to believe that statement. Was it kind to say? Was it health promoting? Was it true? No she didn't like those questions. Tough tulips.

But I was not going to consent to her identification of "those people" (her siblings, for crying out loud), as giving only inferior love. Or that I was an inferior relationship with them. NO... the inferior relationship was with darling nada.

Next stop. Mom's answer to a question I have vowed I will ask each time we talk on the phone, consciously, about DAD's health. "Sure we're fine, dad is fine. I told you we were fine. I would tell you if anything were wrong...." A new opportunity presented itself to her creative mind. She reached deep. "Oh, Vicky, now you wouldn't tell us if things were wrong with YOU," she said. "You never do."

"What do you mean mom-- I never tell you about me?" I ask, genuinely interested to see what she could come up with.

"You didn't tell us when you were in the hospital!!!" she says, gleefully, proud of her aged evidence against me. Meanwhile, I am thinking: Did she mean the last time I was in the psych unit, in 2005? Cause by then, I knew better than to keep my promise to disclose all my vulnerabilities to her. In 2004's hospital stay, she couldn't refrain from need to clutter my head with her OWN paranoid thoughts, that were contraindicated for my mental health. But no, she was referring back to 2003, over SIX years ago....when my husband was far too busy and concerned to call my mom. One could say, she was SPARED our devastation. Sigh. Do we have to go down that road again, when that was put to bed over five years ago? I guess so.

In the end, I just gently reminded my mom of the importance of staying in the present. Yeah, like that fits her agenda of coming up with excuses to use against me. When I could no longer put up with her voice in my ear, I put her on speakerphone and went on about my business. She hung up. I moved on in cleaning up the kitchen.

Five minutes later, she calls back and I answer. I am an optimist, it is my nature. Perhaps it is another chance for redemption?But no, she has called to prove me "wrong" again. I guess it was absolutely necessary for her to be right ( and not happy). She snarls at me, waving her sword at my earlier recommendation she try living in the present. "Live in the present. Live in the present. You live a LIE. You haven't done anything FOR Us in the present. You don't care about us (mom and dad)...."

(Thank goodness for the power and clarity of a good step four. I've already done and inventory and spring cleaning with a loving sponsor and stay up to date on the CURRENT state of my closet. My mom's old rag is long gone.)

I do not consent to being held in thrall to her guilt and will not allow her words to lead me back to that old place of inferiority. That piece of clothing was removed from my closet a long time ago.

I put her on speakerphone, propped on the cutting board and sang a little song to her, sharing my love for myself. She hangs up.

Next time I hope to say, "Mom, those are your worn-out thoughts. I am not putting them back in my closet."

Therapeutic Double Bind

I've been eager to begin sharing my experiences learning about the Inner Critic.

Only recently, have I discovered the (final) linchpin that resulted in my emotional illness--an unexamined and unquestioned Inner Critic...

Bibliotherapy was again at work, in my local library. I went looking for Wayne Dyer, instead I found Hal and Sidra Stone.

The book that found me, the first week my son was back in school, was "Embracing Your Inner Critic, Turning Self-Criticism into a Creative Asset."

This is not a new book, but it puts words to an experience that used to mystify me. In reading about the Inner Critic, I realized that mine was largely derived from my mom, who only ever judges others and never looks within. I realized her pathology is a Judge gone wild, that I internalized and overdeveloped into an Inner Critic that is not discernment but a voice designed to keep me from growing into an actualize adult. Sound familiar?

At this point, I am seeing my job as not being to rid myself of the Inner Critic, but to observe it and learn about myself through it. I also have the sincere desire to help it become a strength, by doing what I do in my job as a parent. I catch my son doing things right, so he can help himself learn any new skill, starting from trial and error. I see it as my quiet job in parenting myself, to catching that Inner Critic doing things right. Well, first, just observing it at work and seeing what can be harnessed for good. For the Inner Critic, more than any child, is very sensitive to criticism.

The truly interesting thing is this: the Inner Critic was developed by each of us in order to protect us as kids. It is the voice inside us that we developed, in order not to get caught doing things "wrong".

One of the the things I do as a writer, is to interview people and write down what they say. After I recognized my mom was never going to get well and be the mom I wanted in the world, I decided that I would at least use our phone conversations as material for story. Well, I did that the very first conversation with her, in which she shared that she wanted to send me a wig to cover up my gray hair. That was my first humor piece!

In the past six months, I've put my mom on speaker phone in order to distance myself from her belittling commentary, which has come on hard and fast, now that I don't play her games as much or try to make things normal any more.

After reading this book, I see that I can use even our bad conversations to learn more about my Inner Critic.

I hope I have the chance soon, but suspect I may have given my parents too much homework, even as I don't expect either of them to change.

Just before Father's Day, I pointedly asked my dad (who I only get to talk to once or twice a year)... if he can do anything at his end to make communication possible between me and him. Then after having one too many one-on-one's with my mom, and seeing a resurgence in the old pattern of abuse at my expense, I sent my mom and dad the letter in which I casually identified my mom's aggressive meanness. Somehow I also fit in my usual "looking for the good..." But it was lost on my mom... Both conversations upset the family apple cart. Lots of over-ripe apples!

After her last "hang up", I decided to let her know that she likely would have a hard time getting ahold of me. I sent my mom a postcard saying I would be unavailable until after school started.

In my mom's eyes, I am not supposed to have communications on my terms--with healthy boundaries. Maybe that is why my mom has not called.... in over three weeks. Interestingly I find I have peace of mind, in this wordless space between us.

Or is it because, in spite of it all, I have been eager for her call ever since school started. I have my pen and paper handy.

Oh well, either way I win. If she calls, I get a new chance to learn about the Inner Critic that learned its role at her knee. If she leaves me in peace, I get to learn about being kinder to me. This is called a therapeutic double-bind.