I had a counselling session today. Two really. Two of my best people helped me through some of it and then I had counselling. Between the two, I feel lighter. One of my friends as well as my counsellor said that I have entered the stages of grieving. Months ago, I didn't understand why both of them were saying that I couldn't be grieving yet. I still don't really, but I feel relieved to be there now and I know that they are right. Emotionally I can feel the difference in what I was going through before and now even if I don't know why. My counsellor told me it was good. She looked relieved. She said it's hard to go through it, but it's healthy.
She also pointed out again that guilt seems to drive a lot of my struggle. I expressed worry about my mom taking her own life. I told her I would feel responsible. I felt like I needed to talk to her psychiatrist again because there were things that I wished I had said, and need to feel like I have done everything I can. She asked me to work on receiving the advice I would give someone in my position. I would tell them that they are not responsible for their mom. That if she took her life, it would never be their fault. That the estrangement itself wasn't their fault.
I can't help feeling responsibility for not being able to handle my mom's illness better and still be there for her. It's a tough one. Ivy is the key. It's Ivy I need to focus on. I would be in my mom's life if I didn't have Ivy. I know that I couldn't be maintaining this without her to protect. If I didn't close that door, Ivy would have continued to be exposed to the dysfunction I wanted so badly to protect her from. Every time I feel guilty, I need to try to feel proud of myself for having the strength to do this to create a more stable childhood for my own daughter than what I had. When I was talking to my counsellor about my dad, she said that the longer that someone is exposed to domestic abuse, and the younger they are when it occurs, the less and less likely it becomes that they will ever be able to separate themselves from it. She said it takes an unbelievable amount of strength to end a cycle. I need to feel proud of myself that I am finding that strength. And I need to understand that that is why this is so hard. If it was easy, there would be less abusive cycles perpetuating out there.
Tuesday, 17 May 2016
Tuesday, 10 May 2016
The Appointment
I met with her. My mom's psychiatrist. As soon as I saw her, I knew. She is wonderful. My mom has a wonderful supportive place to come. I find some peace in knowing that.
And then I told her. As much as I could say in the hour and a half I had there. Childhood, teenage years, my twenties, my first years as a mother. At the end, there was no more time. She said I cannot expose my daughter to my mom's manipulations. She was sure. Confident in that statement. She said it several times. I asked if she thought it could get better. I saw it in her eyes. No. It was a silent no. It was a pause and a look in her eyes. It was sadness, a 'how do I break this to her'... My heart started falling. Like Niagara Falls.
What she said, after the pause was, your mom needs to develop the ability for insight. It's like how an alcoholic can't change until they can raise their hand and say, I am an alcoholic. She said sometimes a little change can be enough to make the difference, but it would be a lot of work to effect a small change.
I wanted her to know so much more. How much I love my mom. How funny she can be. How good she is with Ivy. How much Ivy loves her. How much I always wanted to make her happy. How much it hurts to be doing the opposite. How much I feel like I have failed her. How I did my best. And I'm sorry for getting so mad sometimes. How sorry I am that I ever tried to tell her why and hurt her more by talking about it.
But the time was up. So I left. I picked up my daughter. I played with her until bedtime. I hugged her tight. I kissed her and let her lick my arm like a puppy. I feel so sad for her too. She loves her grandma.
This is so hard.. Every day I question if I am doing the wrong thing. Most days anyway. And now, I know for certain, I can't open the door. The person who is in her corner, her healthiest support has said what I know. What the people closest to me try to make sure I remember. That opening the door back up to her will hurt Ivy. And I can't.
So now, I wait. I need to learn to let it be out of my hands. Her psychiatrist said if there comes a time she thinks we could discuss contact, she will call me.
One more thing. She asked me why I always kept going back for more. She pointed out that I did that and asked if I was working on finding out why with my own therapist. I want to write that here so I remember. I need to ask my counsellor to help me figure that out.
And then I told her. As much as I could say in the hour and a half I had there. Childhood, teenage years, my twenties, my first years as a mother. At the end, there was no more time. She said I cannot expose my daughter to my mom's manipulations. She was sure. Confident in that statement. She said it several times. I asked if she thought it could get better. I saw it in her eyes. No. It was a silent no. It was a pause and a look in her eyes. It was sadness, a 'how do I break this to her'... My heart started falling. Like Niagara Falls.
What she said, after the pause was, your mom needs to develop the ability for insight. It's like how an alcoholic can't change until they can raise their hand and say, I am an alcoholic. She said sometimes a little change can be enough to make the difference, but it would be a lot of work to effect a small change.
I wanted her to know so much more. How much I love my mom. How funny she can be. How good she is with Ivy. How much Ivy loves her. How much I always wanted to make her happy. How much it hurts to be doing the opposite. How much I feel like I have failed her. How I did my best. And I'm sorry for getting so mad sometimes. How sorry I am that I ever tried to tell her why and hurt her more by talking about it.
But the time was up. So I left. I picked up my daughter. I played with her until bedtime. I hugged her tight. I kissed her and let her lick my arm like a puppy. I feel so sad for her too. She loves her grandma.
This is so hard.. Every day I question if I am doing the wrong thing. Most days anyway. And now, I know for certain, I can't open the door. The person who is in her corner, her healthiest support has said what I know. What the people closest to me try to make sure I remember. That opening the door back up to her will hurt Ivy. And I can't.
So now, I wait. I need to learn to let it be out of my hands. Her psychiatrist said if there comes a time she thinks we could discuss contact, she will call me.
One more thing. She asked me why I always kept going back for more. She pointed out that I did that and asked if I was working on finding out why with my own therapist. I want to write that here so I remember. I need to ask my counsellor to help me figure that out.
I Feel Ready
Today I will have a session with my mom's psychiatrist. At first when she called, I was so relieved. A chance. To be heard. A chance for her to understand more clearly my mom's struggles with reality. A chance for my mom's treatment to get more effective with more knowledge.
And then I started to worry. What if she doesn't believe me. What if she does and she doesn't think my mom can change. Then what? I'm afraid of giving up hope.
This morning I woke up and I feel ready. I feel open and willing to be vulnerable. Risk it. Go in without defences and fears.
This has all been so sad and so heavy. I don't know what today will bring, but through it another inch would be worth it. So, here I go...
And then I started to worry. What if she doesn't believe me. What if she does and she doesn't think my mom can change. Then what? I'm afraid of giving up hope.
This morning I woke up and I feel ready. I feel open and willing to be vulnerable. Risk it. Go in without defences and fears.
This has all been so sad and so heavy. I don't know what today will bring, but through it another inch would be worth it. So, here I go...
Sunday, 27 March 2016
Something Like Peace
I haven't written in so long. I want to be okay. I don't like writing when I don't feel like I am getting somewhere. I should have written in the last few days. They have been so good. I have felt something like peace.
Today is Easter Sunday. When my daughter woke up, I went into our room (she always comes into our bed at some point in the night) and told her the easter bunny had come. Her face lit up. She was wearing a black t-shirt with a gold sparkly heart where her heart is. Her hair was in a messy ponytail with the cutest little short bangs. The dim light in the room made her sweet little face glow. I keep falling more and more in love with her. She asked if we could go see what the Easter Bunny left and I agreed. We raced out to the living room and she found her presents and went on the hunt for eggs. My husband and I had prepared sticky buns and mimosas. It's our Christmas morning tradition and we decided to make it a new Easter tradition too. We enjoyed a beautiful, relaxing, happy morning as a family. I relished in a new tradition. I loved the peace we had found.
And then I called my dad back. He said him and my aunt wanted to come by with Easter stuff. I was happy my aunt was coming and looked forward to the visit. When they arrived, my aunt looked at me as though she had a gun to her head and said "your mom is in the car. I know you probably don't want to invite her in". My stomach dropped. I felt all the wind knocked out of me. I just said, no.
They stayed for about 25 minutes. I progressively felt more and more sick. I couldn't believe that my mother was outside in the car. Her view was our living room window. Floor to ceiling windows. A silent picture show, uninvited. I thought about her tears. I tried not to look for her silhouette in the car. I felt like it was surreal. A bad dream. This wasn't my life. My mom sitting outside in a car, surely crying, watching my dad, aunt, daughter, husband and I play and laugh and visit while I, the wicked daughter, refused to invite her in.
And that thing that was something like peace went somewhere else.
Today is Easter Sunday. When my daughter woke up, I went into our room (she always comes into our bed at some point in the night) and told her the easter bunny had come. Her face lit up. She was wearing a black t-shirt with a gold sparkly heart where her heart is. Her hair was in a messy ponytail with the cutest little short bangs. The dim light in the room made her sweet little face glow. I keep falling more and more in love with her. She asked if we could go see what the Easter Bunny left and I agreed. We raced out to the living room and she found her presents and went on the hunt for eggs. My husband and I had prepared sticky buns and mimosas. It's our Christmas morning tradition and we decided to make it a new Easter tradition too. We enjoyed a beautiful, relaxing, happy morning as a family. I relished in a new tradition. I loved the peace we had found.
And then I called my dad back. He said him and my aunt wanted to come by with Easter stuff. I was happy my aunt was coming and looked forward to the visit. When they arrived, my aunt looked at me as though she had a gun to her head and said "your mom is in the car. I know you probably don't want to invite her in". My stomach dropped. I felt all the wind knocked out of me. I just said, no.
They stayed for about 25 minutes. I progressively felt more and more sick. I couldn't believe that my mother was outside in the car. Her view was our living room window. Floor to ceiling windows. A silent picture show, uninvited. I thought about her tears. I tried not to look for her silhouette in the car. I felt like it was surreal. A bad dream. This wasn't my life. My mom sitting outside in a car, surely crying, watching my dad, aunt, daughter, husband and I play and laugh and visit while I, the wicked daughter, refused to invite her in.
And that thing that was something like peace went somewhere else.
Sunday, 14 February 2016
It's time to accept it..
It's been awhile since I wrote. I think I needed a break. The heaviness is less heavy. The stress is still very much there, but the weight of it is just more manageable. I needed to just ride that for a bit. Not speak of it or write of it while I enjoyed these sporadic moments of relief.
In speaking with my aunt, I stepped closer to peace. I suspect it's still a ways off, but I think I have found it in certain moments. I need to accept that I will never feel good about it. It will never not hurt. It's never going to be easy to see posts about moms on Facebook or see other moms and daughters, especially of similar age to my mom and I. There will always be things that trigger memories of her that cause a missing that stops me in my tracks. That breaking of my heart may be an eternal echo through vacant halls and halls of memories I wish I could climb back into. There will always be times where I allow myself to wander down those halls and remember her. I wish I could take those good times and sew together something that made her better. Something that stopped her brain from whatever causes it.
It's getting easier to see. I still admit to some far off hope that one day we can maintain some kind of healthy agreeable relationship, though I know that it is not realistic. She will not get better. She will not learn not to hurt us. She wouldn't have sent those awful Xmas cards if she was gaining any clarity or seeing progress that could lead us back together. She would have stopped when we were children if she could have. It's like there is something that is scrambled in her brain and when it's triggered, there is no accountability or concern for what damage is causes. And that is because she doesn't consciously know it has happened.
And so I accept that there is an alternate reality out there. It is her reality. Where this is all out of nowhere. Where it is because she did too much. She was too good to me, and through all of that spoiling, I lost the ability to appreciate her. Where I am betraying her. Where I have turned. Where she doesn't know where she went wrong. Where I must be ill. Where she hopes that one day I can see the error of my ways and stop doing this to her. And that reality is the story she will share, when she eventually can't pretend anymore to those around her that she is still in our lives. She will say I went off the deep end. And she will be my victim. And they will believe her. And I finally accept that. I finally feel like I don't have one toe in her reality where I feel the accountability to her version. I finally feel less swayed by her story. It is just that. A story.
In speaking with my aunt, I stepped closer to peace. I suspect it's still a ways off, but I think I have found it in certain moments. I need to accept that I will never feel good about it. It will never not hurt. It's never going to be easy to see posts about moms on Facebook or see other moms and daughters, especially of similar age to my mom and I. There will always be things that trigger memories of her that cause a missing that stops me in my tracks. That breaking of my heart may be an eternal echo through vacant halls and halls of memories I wish I could climb back into. There will always be times where I allow myself to wander down those halls and remember her. I wish I could take those good times and sew together something that made her better. Something that stopped her brain from whatever causes it.
It's getting easier to see. I still admit to some far off hope that one day we can maintain some kind of healthy agreeable relationship, though I know that it is not realistic. She will not get better. She will not learn not to hurt us. She wouldn't have sent those awful Xmas cards if she was gaining any clarity or seeing progress that could lead us back together. She would have stopped when we were children if she could have. It's like there is something that is scrambled in her brain and when it's triggered, there is no accountability or concern for what damage is causes. And that is because she doesn't consciously know it has happened.
And so I accept that there is an alternate reality out there. It is her reality. Where this is all out of nowhere. Where it is because she did too much. She was too good to me, and through all of that spoiling, I lost the ability to appreciate her. Where I am betraying her. Where I have turned. Where she doesn't know where she went wrong. Where I must be ill. Where she hopes that one day I can see the error of my ways and stop doing this to her. And that reality is the story she will share, when she eventually can't pretend anymore to those around her that she is still in our lives. She will say I went off the deep end. And she will be my victim. And they will believe her. And I finally accept that. I finally feel like I don't have one toe in her reality where I feel the accountability to her version. I finally feel less swayed by her story. It is just that. A story.
Sunday, 7 February 2016
Out of my head and into the air
I finally talked to my aunt. It went better than I could have expected and she gave me the gift of some peace. Acceptance of where we are at. I don't know if that will last, it's hard for me to stay there, I suspect she will slip back into thinking that we should be allowing my mom access to our daughter. But now the conversation exists.
I opened up to her. A lot. I was never allowed to talk about what went on in our house. To tell someone who was in our life so much and had no idea of some of the stuff that was happening felt good. It felt healthy. It felt like letting light come into dark places.
It also stirred up some stuff in me. I spoke of memories that I don't like to revisit. My aunt talked about some of the things my mom has said. Right after that meeting with my aunt and over the days that followed, I felt a lot of relief but it feels like some of the things I talked about and the things I learned are closing in on me. She asks my aunt to drive by our house with her. That means she is definitely driving by on her own. She said she is googling 'grandparent rights'. I don't know what she is going to do to ramp things up, but I feel like something is coming. She also told me about my mom's versions of some things. One of the things that bothered me most was that she tells my aunt that while I say I didn't want to be in dance class for 8 years, that I was pushed too hard and wanted out, the truth is that it was a different story when I won trophies. Then I was all smiles. My aunt conveyed a smugness when she said it that I can only guess is conveying the spirit behind my mom's words when she speaks of it. It makes me angry. She wouldn't speak to me when I didn't place high enough. I was a disappointment and a letdown then. Of course I smiled when I did anything that got her approval. And that aside, of course I smiled if I won a competition. Feeling pushed, feeling pressured to win, pressured to be the best, feeling intimidated by my teacher, not liking dance, etc. - none of that should mean that I shouldn't be allowed to feel good about doing well when I did well. In the years that I had lost love for it, there were not many trophies. I was allowed a smile when there was one.
It's hard knowing how much she is obsessing. She is applying a lot of pressure to my dad to contact me and ask to let her visit. She has pressured my aunt as well. She confirmed that my mom asked for the email I sent. That she handed her her iPad and sent my aunt on a mission at xmas to get photos and videos of Ivy for her. This I knew, but still hearing it adds some weight to it. My aunt says that my mom keeps saying to her and my dad that they must know more that they are not telling her.
My aunt also spoke of a time my mom was committed to the psych ward, before my brother and I were around. My mom has referenced this, quite a lot in recent years. She doesn't say anything about it other than that she tried to kill herself and spent a month there. My aunt said that the doctors had thought she may be schizophrenic. While I don't think that she is (though I do think she has a personality disorder), it gives me a bit of relief to hear that that long ago, a professional has seen issues that seem to be invisible to so many people. Things that she keeps in check around most people.
All of it feels so heavy again. I felt such relief a few days after talking to my aunt. An intense, beautiful relief. It took me that long to have the relief truly set in and then it was gone so quickly. That talk with my aunt has been something that I have been feeling the need to do for so long, it was always this future conversation that would hang over my head. I so needed it to be over, and now it is and I'm still struggling so much.
Maybe more relief will come. I really hope it will. Maybe I am just having a hard day. It was a challenging day with my daughter. My husband is gone on another long trip after only being home briefly after a long trip. I feel a bit overwhelmed. I hope that tomorrow will be better..
I opened up to her. A lot. I was never allowed to talk about what went on in our house. To tell someone who was in our life so much and had no idea of some of the stuff that was happening felt good. It felt healthy. It felt like letting light come into dark places.
It also stirred up some stuff in me. I spoke of memories that I don't like to revisit. My aunt talked about some of the things my mom has said. Right after that meeting with my aunt and over the days that followed, I felt a lot of relief but it feels like some of the things I talked about and the things I learned are closing in on me. She asks my aunt to drive by our house with her. That means she is definitely driving by on her own. She said she is googling 'grandparent rights'. I don't know what she is going to do to ramp things up, but I feel like something is coming. She also told me about my mom's versions of some things. One of the things that bothered me most was that she tells my aunt that while I say I didn't want to be in dance class for 8 years, that I was pushed too hard and wanted out, the truth is that it was a different story when I won trophies. Then I was all smiles. My aunt conveyed a smugness when she said it that I can only guess is conveying the spirit behind my mom's words when she speaks of it. It makes me angry. She wouldn't speak to me when I didn't place high enough. I was a disappointment and a letdown then. Of course I smiled when I did anything that got her approval. And that aside, of course I smiled if I won a competition. Feeling pushed, feeling pressured to win, pressured to be the best, feeling intimidated by my teacher, not liking dance, etc. - none of that should mean that I shouldn't be allowed to feel good about doing well when I did well. In the years that I had lost love for it, there were not many trophies. I was allowed a smile when there was one.
It's hard knowing how much she is obsessing. She is applying a lot of pressure to my dad to contact me and ask to let her visit. She has pressured my aunt as well. She confirmed that my mom asked for the email I sent. That she handed her her iPad and sent my aunt on a mission at xmas to get photos and videos of Ivy for her. This I knew, but still hearing it adds some weight to it. My aunt says that my mom keeps saying to her and my dad that they must know more that they are not telling her.
My aunt also spoke of a time my mom was committed to the psych ward, before my brother and I were around. My mom has referenced this, quite a lot in recent years. She doesn't say anything about it other than that she tried to kill herself and spent a month there. My aunt said that the doctors had thought she may be schizophrenic. While I don't think that she is (though I do think she has a personality disorder), it gives me a bit of relief to hear that that long ago, a professional has seen issues that seem to be invisible to so many people. Things that she keeps in check around most people.
All of it feels so heavy again. I felt such relief a few days after talking to my aunt. An intense, beautiful relief. It took me that long to have the relief truly set in and then it was gone so quickly. That talk with my aunt has been something that I have been feeling the need to do for so long, it was always this future conversation that would hang over my head. I so needed it to be over, and now it is and I'm still struggling so much.
Maybe more relief will come. I really hope it will. Maybe I am just having a hard day. It was a challenging day with my daughter. My husband is gone on another long trip after only being home briefly after a long trip. I feel a bit overwhelmed. I hope that tomorrow will be better..
Monday, 1 February 2016
"It's Wrong"
My dad called again this weekend. He wanted to know if they could come for a visit. I get this call every few weeks. Each time I say that he is welcome, but I am not ready to allow visits with my mom. This time I was more clear. "It is your choice to stay away dad". He said, "No, we're being told.". I reminded him that I have been consistently clear that he and my aunt are welcome to visit. His response was "It's wrong". Two powerful words to the daughter who is trying so hard to stop feeling like it's wrong to put an end to the dysfunctional cycle I have known my whole life.
It made me angry. I feel angry still. So many things have been "wrong". And my dad never said a word. He never spoke up. Nobody did. Nobody ever came to me as a kid to say, "It's wrong". Nobody ever told me it wasn't my fault or that I didn't deserve it. That it was going to be okay.
It was wrong. He was wrong. Wrong to not come home after work. Wrong to lie. Wrong to hide booze around the house. Wrong to smash his car while drunk. Wrong to need a babysitter. Wrong to scare his kids.
And her. All the yelling. Screaming. Shaming. Bullying. Crying. Smashing. Threats. It was wrong. He didn't say a word about that either. It was my job as their kid to take it all in. And it is my job now to continue to. And if I don't, if I can't, that is wrong. And if I ever stood up for myself, that was wrong too. You're not supposed to speak out against a parent. You're supposed to take it.
After all the things that were wrong, I never once heard him stand up and say a word. He took it. Her abuse. Let her abuse us. Never stood up to say that anything was wrong, ever. Until two years ago, he made sure I knew I was wrong to not speak to her then. And again now. My only experience of my father standing up for anything was to stand up against me.
So I have let them both down. The anger makes me think I don't care, but the charge that runs through my body tells me that I do. If I didn't care, it wouldn't affect me. I want to not care. I feel angry because every time I finally feel some relief, he calls and I go back to fight or flight.
I want to disconnect completely. I want it to be over. I'm so sick of disappointing them. Being in their life is like shooting craps. Will I land on pride or disappointment. I never know. Every time I play, it switches. We're so proud. You're breaking our hearts. Disappointment was always such a part of my relationship with my mom because she was always so vocal about it. What I never realized was how much my dad agreed. Not saying anything was his silent support for everything she did. All those years that I thought he silently felt for me and sympathized with how she treated me, he didn't. He silently condemned me for standing up for myself. He never thought she was wrong. Only me.
I was a kid. I needed him to say it was wrong then. I was just a kid. I get to say enough now. Enough.
It made me angry. I feel angry still. So many things have been "wrong". And my dad never said a word. He never spoke up. Nobody did. Nobody ever came to me as a kid to say, "It's wrong". Nobody ever told me it wasn't my fault or that I didn't deserve it. That it was going to be okay.
It was wrong. He was wrong. Wrong to not come home after work. Wrong to lie. Wrong to hide booze around the house. Wrong to smash his car while drunk. Wrong to need a babysitter. Wrong to scare his kids.
And her. All the yelling. Screaming. Shaming. Bullying. Crying. Smashing. Threats. It was wrong. He didn't say a word about that either. It was my job as their kid to take it all in. And it is my job now to continue to. And if I don't, if I can't, that is wrong. And if I ever stood up for myself, that was wrong too. You're not supposed to speak out against a parent. You're supposed to take it.
After all the things that were wrong, I never once heard him stand up and say a word. He took it. Her abuse. Let her abuse us. Never stood up to say that anything was wrong, ever. Until two years ago, he made sure I knew I was wrong to not speak to her then. And again now. My only experience of my father standing up for anything was to stand up against me.
So I have let them both down. The anger makes me think I don't care, but the charge that runs through my body tells me that I do. If I didn't care, it wouldn't affect me. I want to not care. I feel angry because every time I finally feel some relief, he calls and I go back to fight or flight.
I want to disconnect completely. I want it to be over. I'm so sick of disappointing them. Being in their life is like shooting craps. Will I land on pride or disappointment. I never know. Every time I play, it switches. We're so proud. You're breaking our hearts. Disappointment was always such a part of my relationship with my mom because she was always so vocal about it. What I never realized was how much my dad agreed. Not saying anything was his silent support for everything she did. All those years that I thought he silently felt for me and sympathized with how she treated me, he didn't. He silently condemned me for standing up for myself. He never thought she was wrong. Only me.
I was a kid. I needed him to say it was wrong then. I was just a kid. I get to say enough now. Enough.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)