Delayed Reaction

Three days after the letter from my mother arrived, I'm crying. It's taken that long for me to break down. I have found myself so full of anger - and yes, pain - but also determination: I will not let her hurt me, I will not let her break me. And yet, here I sit in tears, too much to hold in.

I hear so much about forgiveness. Even my closest friends in whom I've confided some of the darkest details preach to me about forgiveness. I get it. I understand the concept of forgiveness, and I understand that in most cases it's more for the person doing the forgiving than the one being forgiven. I understand that it's possible to forgive someone without even communicating it to them. And I understand that forgiving someone doesn't necessarily mean allowing them into your life. Forgiveness, as I understand it, is letting go of the anger, of somehow finding peace in your heart.

I am struggling so much with this. I don't know how to forgive her. And although I don't want this anger and pain to eat me alive, I'm also not sure I even want to figure out how to forgive her. My anger is an armor, a hard shell that grew over many years and that served to protect me. I don't know how to let it go. And in some ways I think that forgiveness is overrated.

It's been many years that my mother and I have been estranged; I have not spoken to her or laid eyes on her for almost eleven years now. And the truth is, I don't give her much thought at all these days. She rarely enters my consciousness. The mother I was supposed to have - the one every child deserves to have - never existed. The one I did have has been gone to me for a long, long time. Although there's a certain longing at times for a mother, I've just gotten used to not having one. It's not until she intrudes in my life again that all these feelings come bubbling up to the surface.

It's not so much the content of her six-page letter to me this past week - I know my own heart and character, I know the truth of myself and my past. My life, as it was and as it is, speaks for itself. It's knowing that this is my mother, who still, after all these years, seems determined to inflict pain, to lash out, to tear down. My mother. She's still an abuser. The comfort I take is in knowing that now, unlike before, I can choose not to be victimized by her.

*****

Dear Mother -

I would feel sorry for you if I weren't so sickened by you.

Go fuck yourself.

Warmly,

Lisa

P.S. I am better than you.

*****

Like I said, I'm struggling.