God, Are You My Mother?

If I were to look at my life through an old fashioned movie reel, there’d be two frames that’d stand out above all the rest, and in stark contrast to each other. The first frame would show the worst thing that ever happened to me: being torn from my mother at the age of four. The other frame would be the bestthing: the day I met God.

I’ve written about the worst thing many times. My mother loss is the soul wound that I’ve tried to patch up, wanting to be whole with all my might. Page after page, I’ve been trying to piece myself back together. It is a labor of love, using whatever love I can muster up for myself. That I was taken from my mother, that is painful for people to read. But bad things happen and people believe it. It is true. My mother loved me. I loved her. She was good and I was told to believe she was bad. She was alive and I was expected to pretend she was dead.  It has been scary to tell my truth, but how could I not tell it?

But the good thing, the best day, the day that I became whole, well that has taken me over fifteen years to even contemplate writing about.  I recall that day with  just as much clarity as the worst day; so much clarity in fact that it is almost blinding to my senses when I recall it, even now.

Why didn’t I write about it sooner? For one thing, what if the telling makes it less real? What if I am giving something away that was meant only for me? But also, there is only so much I can expect people to believe.  It might sound unbelievable to some, especially those who don’t believe in miracles.

Which brings me back to God and the day I met Him. Or Her. Or perhaps more accurately, All That Is.  Creator.  Higher Self or Inner Being.   I am not a particularly religious person in the traditional sense. I don’t go to church. I’ve never read the bible. But when you think you’ve been broken, eventually you turn to God to fix you. I prayed, I meditated,  I did God my own way, which was privately, quietly, and with my whole heart.

Then one day God showed up like a Mother. I mean he showed up in a Very Big Way. I had gone to bed the night before distraught over something, the details of which are not important, but that had everything to do realizing I was not  yet whole. I felt desperate to be whole. Desperate. I could not undo the past. I could not fix myself. I had all the material things I needed, and I had true love in my life.  I also had my writing, my passions. But I still had that gaping hole where my wound was and that night I really felt it. That night, I lost hope that I could fix myself, so I turned it over to God. I turned my un-whole self over.  I recall that I  surrendered, completely and intentionally; I am talking Jesus take the wheel surrender. And then I fell asleep.

The next morning, well, how can I tell you about this? How do I frame it?  I was new.  Real.  Whole. And so very alive.  I remember it all so clearly, so I will tell it clearly too. There were five feelings, or knowings, – there were five things that I awoke to find myself being – without even trying. There were just these five ways of being that took me over. Nothing at all was new on the outside, but I was suddenly different on the inside.

Presence  I was completely in the moment. My mind was not on the past or the future. I remember the phone ringing and not wanting to answer it, because I absolutely did not want to be pulled out of the present moment. I was totally, completely, there, mind, body and spirit. Instead of overthinking, worrying, and analyzing, I was simply being. I spent much less time in my head, and more time in in my body where my heart dwelled, where my feelings could flow through me. Instead of thinking, thinking, thinking, I was living. Life was now.

Joy  I was completely satisfied with the moment. Whether I was doing a jigsaw puzzle with my children, or taking a walk alone, it was joyful. I had no craving, no desire for something different. I was enjoying life in the purest sense of the word.

Love  I was filled with love for myself and others. I was overflowing with love. I was love.

Self-Care  I recognized and met my own needs, moment by moment, simply, and directly. When I was hungry I ate. When I was full, I stopped.  When I was tired, I laid down.  I exercised moderately and without fanfare or much planning. I just did it.  And I accepted my body completely, knowing I was giving it whatever it needed, without obsessing or even thinking about it, really.

Belief  I knew that anything was possible. I had met God. God was within me.  My self-imposed limits vanished. I knew that the more I “let go”, and allowed myself to be guided into right action, the better chance of achieving whatever I wanted.
And that is it. That is all of what I felt, and all of what I became that day that I met God. I was living, not in my head, but in my Whole Self . I was whole and it felt amazing. But before I lead you astray, I must confess something.

This did not last.

IT lasted a few days, or a week at most. And they were the most glorious days. But slowly, my doubt came back. My distracted mind returned. I judged people again, including myself,  and I neglected my own care, or expected others to meet the needs that were mine to meet. Bit by bit, I gave my power away without meaning to. My ego woke back up.  I got busy and overwhelmed. I didn’t pay attention. I didn’t check in with my Self. I started to lose my way again.

 

But  the really good news is that I know what to strive for now: To be more present, to find joy in my life every single day, to love and care for myself and to find the best in others. To believe that all of this is possible. Every. Single. Day. 

My dreams are possible.

So are yours.

 

I aim to feel this way every day now and I fall short, every single time, but sometimes I get close. And God always meets me in the middle.

 

Perhaps I was meant to tell you about the day I met God.

Maybe the story was never mine to keep.

It does not feel less real, now that I’ve given it away, now that I’ve told you about this.

It feels more real.

And I feel more real.

I am whole, just like you. I was all along. I’d just forgotten.

A difficult conversation

In anticipation of speaking with my alienating parent, I have been advised to set my intentions carefully and clearly; this is so that I do not get sidetracked in arguing smaller points.

I want to prepare for this conversation with my father, in order to avoid flailing words at him or letting my emotions take over. I don’t want to allow him to hijack the conversation, stonewall me, or point the finger at everyone but himself.

But I also know I cannot control his reactions, only my own. This is a new position for me, to let go of my father’s response, after decades of taking his emotional temperature.

So with my own intentions crystal clear, finally,  I will  have this long overdue conversation. In the end, I want to know I did my best to speak my own truth and then I want to move forward, freely.

  My intentions are:

*To let him know I refuse to pretend my mother does not exist. This does not mean I will be sharing details of our reconnection, but that I will not go out of my way to avoid mentioning my mother to him or to my stepmother or sisters. It stops now. 

 *To let him know that the book I am writing is indeed a memoir, and not a novel as he has called it in the past, and also to make it clear that I am writing my story from  my own creative and authentic desire and also as a way to help others. It is not all about me. Nor is it all about him.  “Parental alienation” is a terrible epidemic of psychological child abuse, and I believe I am assisting others with my story.  My professional and creative work does and will continue to include speaking and writing on this topic. He is not expected to share in my interest nor read or comment on any of it. But I will not apologize for the work I feel called to do. My intentions have nothing to do with retaliation and everything to do with truth and empowerment and healing-for all those affected.  

*To find out as soon as possible if his acceptance of me is contingent upon my silence and compliance with his wishes.  If speaking and writing my truth will result in his rejection, I would like to know now so that I can move on without him in my life. But I hope he will recognize the opportunity for his own healing; it will require him to hear me though, for the first time. 

*To reach a place of peace and forgiveness, with or without his cooperation. This includes forgiveness of myself for taking so damn long to have the courage to speak up with clear and firm intentions. 

If I keep those intentions in mind as I initiate this conversation, I think I stand a good chance of saying what needs to be said. The truth shall set you free.  I say it’s about time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Solving the mystery

   A few years after the mysterious disappearance of my mother, my sister and I found a kite in our yard that did not belong to us. We took it upon ourselves to travel about the neighborhood, searching for its rightful owner. It was a challenge, a game of sorts, to try to find the child who had lost his kite.

  But  to me, it felt like more than a game. It wasn’t that I was overly concerned with the kite owner’s loss; it was that I had an unfulfilled need to solve a mystery. It felt urgent to me, like an obsession, or an all consuming task. The mystery had landed in my own backyard, and I had a burning desire to get to the bottom of it.

  Maybe if I could solve the tiny mysteries,  some day I would find out the big truths.

 To my disappointment, we never did find out who the kite belonged to, but I never forgot that day, or the feeling that was evoked in me. I recognized that feeling  at seventeen, when I searched my parents’ divorce files at the courthouse, looking for clues. It consumed me  again as an adult when I contacted my mother’s lover, the one who was going to help her escape my father.

Fortunately, my unrelenting truth seeking led me to my mother, where I could get her story. It also led me to family members, both hers and my fathers, who could help me to fill in some missing pieces, or in many cases, validate what my childhood memory held.

She was a good mother.

She was afraid of my father. 

Even though she had no car, my father refused to drop my sister and me off to see her after he threw her out of our home. He made it as difficult as possible for her to see us. 

He told people that she asked him to take custody of us because “he could take care of us better than she could”.   

Although  this story has been tragic, I believe the ending is a happy one.  I am talking with my mother and we are having the big, important conversations. I threw caution to the wind, and took the chance that I might scare her away with discussing the painful past.  This led to a breakthrough in our relationship. I think with each conversation we have, she is getting just a tiny bit stronger, and so am I.

It is not easy being a truth seeker when much of the truth is ugly. But here’s the thing: the truth is beautiful too. I have not sought evidence against my father, as much as I have sought evidence for my mother.

And though it has taken me decades, the clues were easy to find. They have been tucked away in my heart and memories my whole life.  The years, and the seeking, were just an excavation of what was there. I already knew.

  *This photo of my sister and me was given to me by mother.  It was taken shortly before my parents’ divorce. We had no idea we were about to be torn from our mother.                                                                     PARENTAL ALIENATION MUST STOP

The gift of our wounds

Unhealed trauma muffles the inner impulses that guide your authentic brilliance to fully emerge.

In order to disrupt the faulty systems, we have to be willing to withstand criticism and disapproval from others while rooted in the greater vision that motivates us.

-Bethany Webster

***

The adult alienated child, if able to see the truth of their childhood, faces the daunting task of holding the alienator accountable. Ideally, adults in the child’s life would have been able to handle this task long ago, if not stopping the alienating, at least making it more difficult for him. But all this parent really needs is access to the child’s mind, and some of the child’s time, in order to begin the damage. And in the unfortunate trauma that is parent alienation, it is often the targeted, alienated parent who is made into the villain, not only by the alienator, but also by the other people who surround the child. The disgrace fallen upon the out casted parent can be shockingly insidious.

I can recall sitting outside with my sister and a neighborhood friend about a year or two after my mother was cast out of my life. We were young children, and one of us brought up the subject of my mother, a very rare occurrence. Our neighbor, a little girl of about six years old, said “I remember she used to give us whole bottles of coke”. She was referring to the individual bottles of coke. It wasn’t what she said that spoke volumes, but the tone in which she said it, implying that our mother  was a bad, irresponsible mother. This was a childhood friend, a neighbor who had been welcomed into our home by our mother. Somehow even this innocent little girl had gotten on board the hate wagon.

This influence spread far and wide and each time I was witness to it, I remained silent.  I only had four years with my mother; how could I prove to anyone that she was good? I was a child when she disappeared from my life, and I was led to believe it was irresponsible abandonment. I did not believe this, but how does a young child explain that their heart tells them otherwise, while living in an atmosphere that forbids such declaration?

They don’t.

I didn’t.

It is up to me to finally, after decades, to confront my father without backing down again. I need to approach him with the possibility for forgiveness, but with the confidence and knowledge that I have now.

No one else is going to do it.

Not even my mother, who was robbed of her children. Despite her undying resentment toward him, she does not have the courage, strength, or desire to ever speak to my father again.

Not my sister who still feels very protective of my father, akin to Stockholm syndrome.

Not my stepmother who does not know the truth because she does not want to know it.  She has been enabled to remain obliviously unaware of the past.

But here is the good news about being the one who must hold him accountable.

I get to stand up to him, realize my own courage and speak my own truth, and fully heal my own wound.

I will no longer wonder what he will say if I mention my new-found, albeit fragile, reconnection with my mother. There it will be, my words giving voice to what should never have been taken away.

I get to reclaim my birthright, my authenticity, my power.

I get to free myself.

And forgive.

I have been warned, by a trusted expert and also by loved ones, that it won’t be easy. I know this is true. I’ve been told it will bring about feelings, and pain and memories that I may not even be aware of yet. To say that I am not looking forward to that part is an understatement. I am dreading it.

But I know that our greatest gifts lie right beneath our deepest wounds.

Many never go there, understandably. We can easily spend our whole lives avoiding it, and some do. In fact, there is all kinds of encouragement to “leave the past behind”, and “focus only on now”.

I am calling bullshit on that.

Because  if we do venture there, if we face our biggest hurts, we will be freed up in ways we could not even imagine.

I feel lucky to know this.

This is not just a topic of parent alienation. This is about facing and healing our wounds.

It’s about making our way back to our true selves.

That is the gift of the journey.

What could be greater than that?

 

Reminder: Parent Alienation Support Group in Massachusetts

Thursday, June 2, 2016 from 7:00 PM to 9:00 PM

Family Development Associates
40 Speen St., #106
Framingham, MA 01701

I hope to see some of you there! 

The Fear of an Alienated Child

Through the process of writing my memoir, as well as agreeing to be interviewed for a documentary on family alienation, the familiar fear surfaces in my dreams at night. In my sleep, I force the words out to my father  I have seen my mother.

In my next dream, I tell my stepmother, with urgency, that the story line she was told (that my mother just “left”), is untrue. I am dreaming that I am in my childhood home, and my stepmother wants to go to my father in the next room to tell him what I’ve said. It is then that I feel the fear I felt as a child. He will be rageful. He will get violent. Someone will get hurt or die. 

As I’ve learned through my research, “parent alienation” is a manifestation of a personality disorder pathology. Some cases, including mine, have a domestic violence variant. Themes of control and emotional and psychological (and sometimes physical) abuse toward the (targeted) spouse have played out in the marriage. When the targeted spouse rejects the abusive spouse, the control escalates. A symptom of the pathology is the abusive spouse’s inability to mentally handle rejection. They will stop at nothing to regain control and their status as the “one in charge, the one that must be admired, and never rejected”.

I believe that parents who alienate their children from the other parent are  bullies, but some are more outwardly aggressive than others.  Sadly, most people do not want to confront the bully, but especially not a rageful or violent one.

Speaking from both personal experience and research, the children have a knowing that the rage will be turned against them if they fight against the alienation. The alienating parent communicates this is many ways, both subtle and overt.

This is the feeling that I remember. This is the feeling that will never quite leave me, no matter my age, my confidence in what I am doing, or the support that I have. 

But in the face of fear, especially an outdated fear, one must keep moving forward. Nightmares may occur out of real feelings, but the nightmares themselves are not real.

In the light of day, I carry on this task of shining a light on “parent alienation”, and telling my story. Not doing so would feel like self betrayal, and that  is real. That would be the real nightmare.

To be able to feel the fear and do it any way, as the saying goes, I believe, is the gift I have been given. I will not squander it.

***

This letter of support, written by Dr. Craig Childress for one of his clients, explains the impossible position the children are put in during the alienation process.  http://drcachildress.org/asp/admin/getFile.asp?RID=115&TID=6&FN=pdf

 

 

 

 

All That You Never Asked: a message to my stepmother

You were young and unsuspecting, and eager to leave your mother’s home.

My father wrote you love poems and promised to make you queen of his castle.

He needed to replace my mother you see, and you never asked why.

You cut my hair short to match your own and we never mentioned Her.

It was convenient after all, to have your husband’s ex-wife cast aside and out of our lives.

She had left home, gone away, my father told you.
You never asked why.

Then one day she showed up, eyes full of grief. Shaking in my father’s presence, she handed me a birthday gift. I had just turned five.

Jealous and crying, you looked to my father to console you while I opened the gift.

I was scared to ask my mother to stay. Terrified to say how much I’ve missed her.

From my room at night, I heard you and my father fighting, loud and violent.

I heard his rage again and wondered; didn’t you think my mother feared him too?
But you never asked.

My sister acted out in anger and I regressed. You spanked her and changed my wet sheets each morning. You made our lunches and washed our clothing. We called you mother because that is what we were told to do.

Just like us, you fell in line. I see now that in a way, you were a victim too.

As a teenager, sickened by the lie I was made to live, I hung poetry on the wall, and searched for affection. I wondered who I was and how much longer I must hate the part of me that was Her.

In my silence, you never asked why. I understand now that you were afraid to know.

My father wrote your story, just like he wrote mine. But the truth never left me, my mother’s love, crumbling beneath the force of my father. I remember it.

I remember all that you did not want to know, all that you never asked.

To my father, and to every alienator

I know that no one is born revengeful or angry. I believe that people enter life as love. I know that you were abused by your father, who was likely abused by his and so on. I know that his words probably did more damage than his fist- the way he told you that you were worthless, incapable, nothing. He didn’t see you, not really. He told you a lie.

I know that he abused your mother, my grandmother. She told me about the time when you were a teen and had enough of his wrath. The time, the hundredth time, he banged his fist and stood up at the dinner table; something trivial triggered his rage and when he leaned toward your mother, you stood to protect her.  You ran to grab the ax used for cutting wood and told him no more. He sat back down. You drew a line that day.

But you drew a line over your heart too. The line says I will love this much but no more. I will feel this much but no more. It reasons, this line you’ve drawn, that you did your best to love my mother and she rejected you. Your best was sometimes cold, sometimes demeaning, but it was better than what you knew. The line says you will not feel sadness. You mustn’t. You will not grieve.

The line says you will feel this but not that. Anger but not grief. Rage but not compassion.  I was not allowed to grieve either, when you cast my mother out.  Your actions were cut off from your heart, your spirit. Even your supposed love for me could not lift you above this rage, this protection you had built for yourself. You had to win. Win at hurting. Win at all costs.

I was expected to put the same line over my heart, a line that says I will not love my mother. I will let her go. And the cost was great, much greater than your ego knows. Your ego thinks you won; it even thinks I won, for I have you, the superior one.

But your spirit knows you have lost. The choices you made were from wounds and from fear, and not from love, not from love at all, despite what you have convinced yourself.

Love does not do this.

You may never own this, not before your death anyway. You sense that if you did, you would feel a pain much greater than your father’s fist. Greater than his cutting words. Greater than the pain of rejection. You would feel a pain as searing as an ax through the heart. To face what you have done would mean facing all your wounds. It would render you vulnerable. But in letting it break your heart, you would find your spirit again. If you only knew  what you stand to gain. If you did face the truth, in some moment of stillness, by some miracle, and let the pain of this truth wash over you, then you would be living. You would be real again. I believe in miracles.

For now, my father, and Every Alienator, you are existing in a swath of protection, in a lie that tells you that you have won, that you are right. But that lie is fragile, weak and thin, and it covers your heart where the truth resides. That is what you don’t know; you don’t know the cost of winning.

I take comfort in knowing the truth. I have suffered great blows to my sense of self, but I love that I am a truth seeker. I am grateful that I am strong enough to face what is real. I grew up afraid of you because I didn’t know then how weak and scared you really are. If you allow yourself to break apart, to see the truth, I will not say I told you so.

Someday, maybe not in this lifetime, I will see the real you and I will recognize you as love.

The Moth Story Slam: hair

I participated in a Moth Story Slam this week.  This is an open mic forum which takes place in major cities all over the U.S. Each story teller has five minutes on stage. The theme of this one was “Hair”. I told the story of my alienation from my mother and in particular, how having hair similar to hers was a reminder that she existed.   Although I was nervous to do this (it’s not like I do this sort of thing on a regular basis), it went very well. I declined to have my story added to their pod casts (the Moth is sponsored by WBUR) in order to protect my privacy (my name would be attached), but of course I am conflicted about this.  In time, my complete memoir will, hopefully, be out in the world, privacy be damned.  But for now, I am keeping it rather anonymous so that I can complete it without feeling the need to defend myself from people who most certainly object. Anyhow, here is the mini memoir, the condensed version that I told to an audience of about 200.

 ***

I removed this story because I signed an agreement with a (online)magazine where it will be published soon. After six months on their site, I will be able to include the link to it here.

8. Our New Life

For as long as I can remember, I have been drawn to the mysterious, untouchable, the whisper in the dark, I-know-something-and-feel-it-but-can’t-touch-it side of life. Perhaps this was born from the loss of my mother. I remembered the outline of her, like a shadowy figure, unreachable but etched in my memory. She had colors, red hair, white skin, but after a while, no face. I couldn’t name her. What would I call her? My mother? My imagination?

Today my connection to the divine is something so consistent, I can tune in to it to guide me in so many areas if my life, including writing this memoir. The better I take care of myself, the clearer the guidance. I wish I’d known all my life of this power that resides within me. To be connected to it, and to take action from this place, is such a gift.

***

  While still newly married, my father resumes his busy schedule. Having finished up his college degree, he is working two jobs. He teaches high school in the day and tends bar at night. Kate has taken her place as his wife, eager to help him erase any thoughts that another wife ever existed.

My father and Kate’s families are supportive of the new arrangement, as are neighbors and friends. Amy’s teacher is invited to our home for dinner and seems approving. In everyone else’s eyes, my father is a hero, keeping custody of his young daughters after his wife abandoned him.  We had a new mother willing to take on such a huge commitment, to raise us like her own.   No need to pity us now; our father had put life back together, and so quickly too.  We had a clean slate, and could move on as if divorce had never touched us.

   

I am wearing my yellow Polly Flinders dress on the first day of Kindergarten. Kate says goodbye at the door like the other mothers. There is one mom though, that is not leaving yet. Her little girl is clinging to her and crying, screaming really, at the top of her lungs. She won’t let go of her mother and the teacher comes over and has to pry her away. This touches something in me, like a memory, but it is something out of reach. It is like a flash, or a spark, and it is gone in an instant.

The room looks huge and bright and I feel foggy, like I’m dreaming. I play with some blocks and then clay and later we line up for restrooms. Two girls from an older class come in to help walk us to the bathroom, and one of them takes my hand. When we come back we learn the pledge of allegiance. The teacher is old and nice.

When I get home I eat chicken noodle soup and watch Sesame Street, then Mr. Rogers. This becomes my routine most days after school.  Afterwards, I play outside in the sandbox, or ride my bike in the driveway. Sometimes I play with my doll, putting her down for a nap in my bed, then picking her up to feed her with the pink plastic bottle, changing her, then bringing her to the living room and pretending it is Spags, the busy store we sometimes go to on Saturday.

 

Before supper one night, my father is holding a letter in his hands and pacing in the kitchen. He looks up from the letter and tells Amy and me that Grandpa Coburn has died.  I am surprised to hear him say that. I don’t feel anything around the news of my grandfather’s death because I am mesmerized, fearful really, that my father has mentioned the past. There has been no talk at all about our mother or her parents since we last saw them, about a year ago. Was it a year? I didn’t know, really, It was another life, our old life, one I had shut off in my mind. To hear my father mention our grandfather now felt scary, like a dream; sort of like Kindergarten but without the good things in it or the nice people.

Amy and I don’t say anything. Kate keeps busy at the stove. Our father still has his  teaching clothes on.  It looks like he is still working, holding a school paper. He just read an answer. Grandpa Coburn has died. Now it is time for supper.

I lay still in bed that night. There is always this time between when Amy and I go to bed and before Kate and our father go to their room.  I listen for their voices downstairs, to be sure they aren’t arguing. I know their arguments can turn into big fights and I’m scared of those. So I listen, and sometimes the voices get louder and I hold my breath but then they are quiet again. When that happens, they are probably just talking to each other from separate rooms, so they have to get a little bit loud.

But tonight I hear the voices getting louder and I can tell they are near each other. It is an angry-loud -voice night. I make my breath shallow, trying to turn down their voices that way. I am frozen but I force myself to pretend I can turn their volume down with my breath.  Amy and I don’t talk, but we are listening. We both know the other is awake.

“Goddamn you!” Kate says loudly.  Then I hear some noise, like somebody is bumping a wall or something. My hands are tingling but I don’t move them. My heart, pounding.

They are in the living room, at the bottom of the stairs. Our door is open a bit because Amy wants it that way at night.

Please stop, please stop, please stop. I chant this to myself over and over. I breath in once after the third stop. I breath out only after chanting this three more times.

It reminds me of the game that Amy and I used to play in bed. We sang “The bear went over the mountain, the bear went over the mountain, the bear went over the mountain, to see what he could see”. We had to sing that as many times as we could without taking a breath.

“Let me go. Let my get by, you son-of-a-bitch”, I hear Kate saying now. Her voice is loud enough to hear, but she isn’t shouting now. Then some more noise, like scuffling. Their voices become further away, in the kitchen I think.  Now it is getting louder and I go under my covers, blocking my ears, chanting, please stop, please stop, please stop. Breath in. Please stop, please stop, please stop.  Breath out.

A door slams. Our father has gone out. Sometimes when he gets back there is more fighting. Other times, it is quiet. Sometimes there are flowers in the morning.  I wait for my heart to stop beating so hard. I let myself breathe all way. After a while I take the covers off my head, sweating. I listen for more sounds but don’t hear any. Everything is quiet and then Amy whispers “Goodnight”.

“Goodnight”, I whisper back.

Reflections of my Mother

This essay was published in Spirituality & Health magazine (titled Mother’s Day Reflection)and won an award in the memoirs category of the 76th annual Writer’s Digest contest.

***

My mother and I have been engaged in an awkward dance of reconnecting. We use email because it feels safe. I have time to choose my words carefully. Besides, I think that my mother is not ready to hear the sound of my voice again.

She and my father had an ugly divorce when I was five, and my father gained custody of me. A year later my father remarried and my visits with my mother stopped. I remember sneaking down to the basement when I was very young to look at the one picture with my mother in it. The others had been discarded, but my father missed this one and I was grateful. It proved to me that she was still real.

Years later I have processed so many feelings, including the anger I had at her abandoning me. I am ready to embrace my mother and become vulnerable enough to give her the chance to love me again. Or love me still, whichever it is. I think this reunion will be tremendously healing for both of us. I tell her this.

But then I don’t hear from her for a long while. I’m confused. I think I’m offering her the gift of a lifetime and I don’t know why she doesn’t respond. My heart is open and I have forgiven her. Why doesn’t she accept this second chance?

After several months I grow frustrated and angry. In one message she tells me of the terrible hole in her heart since she left my life. In the next message she ignores my offer to visit. I want to shout, “It’s me! Remember that little girl you left behind? The one who looks just like you? I survived and I haven’t forgotten you! Don’t you want me back?” But I sense that I have to be gentle.

Then one day I experience the incredible gift of clarity. It is difficult to explain the depth of knowing that came to me. I suddenly feel I understand why my mother cannot have a relationship with me again. Every time she even thinks of me she is reminded of that dark place inside herself that is so full of guilt and despair. She is fragile and does not have the tools or the strength to deal with her overwhelming emotions. She has spent years trying to keep this wound covered through various escapes. My presence in her life threatens to take away her veil of denial.

I often wondered how a mother could abandon her five-year-old child and go on. Now I believe that she can’t. She can’t do it and survive emotionally. My mother is not all right. She is consumed by guilt and my forgiveness will never be enough. She cannot forgive herself.

My heart aches with grief and I cry for myself and for my mother. I thank God I am strong in spirit and I know what I need to do. I send my mother one last email. I tell her I understand now why she doesn’t let me back into her life. I know that she would if she could. I tell her it is okay and I am strong and I will go on. I tell her I will always love her anyway.