Public, Private, Perplexing

[fiatjustitia]

My mother died this spring. While my parents may have had the best of intentions, and may have believed in their hearts that they loved me (this is what makes it so hard and heartbreaking), by and large I have been estranged from my family throughout my adult life. Notwithstanding superficial or geographic distance or lack of direct communication, in my heart I always yearned for reconciliation. I wrote about all that I felt to my mother, speaking from the heart and was met with dismissive ridicule or wholly ignored. I was able to have one brief visit with my mother a few years ago in which she was somewhat restrained in her abuses, but they were not absent. I went to visit her on Mother's Day a year ago and she put on a show of helplessness which was belied by her walking without assistance after having created the impression that this was not possible. Notwithstanding that she had never responded to the hurt I had expressed to her, she demanded that I stop everything and move in with her. She told me that it was "nothing" to be part of the profession that she implored me to join years ago. Her only response to me was, "I don't know how to write a wrong. I sent you some flowers." She sent flowers every year, not as a gift but as an act of aggression, to announce her relentless presence in my life. It was a source of great pain to me that seemingly (and I am not so sure) others would say, "well, just set boundaries." There never was a boundary that I set that my mother did not take sadistic glee in smashing. So that did me no good at all, and only served to underscore a sense of impotence.

I left that Mother's Day heartbroken, and having sought assistance from clergy, was told that I should shape up and then go live with her. This was after I had disclosed to this clergy person that, while there are thousands of children who were abused by clergy who eventually went home, I was home. I sought the assistance of a psychologist who would not permit me to speak, prattling on and on. When I sought to mention some of the issues I had with her "treatment," she told me that she "did not want to hear it."

I waited some time and then contacted a therapist in my mother's town. I wrote to my mother and said that inasmuch as our visit had not gone well, I wanted to invite her to meet with a professional. My letter was ignored. I wrote again. She responded by denying the need for professional assistance, saying only that she had much that she wished to tell me.... (ah, fear of abandonment and death and seduction all at once!), but that she would do as I wished.

I met with the therapist one evening, having travelled four hundred miles to do so. She praised me for breaking the cycle of abuse. I had waited a lifetime to hear those words, so they were deeply meaningful.

The next morning a meeting had been scheduled with my mother. She failed to appear on time. A social worker from the town called to say that she was having difficulty finding directions. I advised the therapist that this was a rescue diversion and that we ought not play into it. When half the meeting time had been used up, my mother arrived. I told her that I could not have a relationship with her unless she examined what she had done in the past and what she was presently doing to hurt me. She never responded to this, but rather asked what she should do and indeed said, just tell me what to do. (This would be a trap, of course, for she would be able to say, next time she abused, that she was only doing as I suggested.) While pretending not to know what to do or what was being discussed, she suddenly leaned over, grabbed my arm and said, "Are you taking your medication? Are you seeing someone?" Her response to being confronted with her abuses was to portray me as a mental patient. This is not the case. I am at pains to decide which would be more cruel: to make a remark like this which had no foundation in reality, or, God forbid, to make such a remark in the presence of a real mental illness.

She then demanded that I come "home" with her, as if no discussion had been had.

When she left the room, the therapist stated that my mother had to say what she said or else everything I had said would have been true. I was astonished. My mother had to abuse me in a professional setting, which she knew had meaning for me? The therapist next distanced herself from me, indicating that she did not want to confer with me by telephone. She did not respond to e-mail from me.

Two months later my mother became ill and died. A cousin with whom I had had no contact as an adult, and who lives one-half a mile from my mother, ridiculed me on several occasions and disclosed to me that she had not spoken with my mother in a year. She went on at length about my mother's shortcomings. I am well aware of them. However, she was dying and I found it highly inappropriate, just an exercise in self justification. At my mother's burial service she began discussing an unpaid insurance bill with me. The lapse of the policy could have resulted in tens of thousands of dollars in exposure. Perhaps she thought this shock would prompt me to ought to join my mother in the grave, and she would be the sole heir.

Throughout all the ceremonies, I was profoundly ill at ease, feeling scrutinized by others. It was very difficult to hear what I wonderful person my mother was. I did not recognize the person they were talking about.

It goes on and on. Last weekend I visited with an old friend from college and dared to disclose this information for this first time. She opined that all this is why I entered my profession. Nothing could break my heart again more. People who enter my field because of personal experience are dangerous and are the worst of the lot.

The bureaucracy of death grows ever more unpleasant, dealing with the physical items, the courts, etc. I made a trip to my mother's house some weeks ago just to allow myself to go in the house without fear. So the house has lost its haunting horror, but it is not pleasant, either.

This, then, is my story. I wonder if others are experiencing a similar complex grief.

[SadRN]

So very sorry for the loss of your mother. It sounds as if you have had years of unresolved sadness. The only thing I can recommend to make some progress is to forgive your mother. That does not mean that you forget what she has done to you throughout your life, but that you forgive her for the pain she has caused you. The only way to gain peace in your life is to forgive her. Let it go. Otherwise you will continue to play the anger/guilt scenarios through your mind continually. The only person you are hurting now is yourself. It took me a long time to realize this myself. My mother and I have had some ups and downs in the last 10 years, and it was causing me countless sleepless days and sadness and anger. But once I forgave her, things got better. It doesn't mean I have forgotten the hurtful things she has done, and it doesn't mean we are "closer than ever". But now I am an adult and for my sake, and my sanity, I have had to put that part of my life aside and move on. She isn't going to change, and neither am I. And I can go on and stew over it and become more saddened and angered, or I can forgive and concentrate on the other wonderful things in my life. Forgiveness frees you up to see the good things going on in your life. Do you still have a relationship with your father? You mention your profession- do you mean the field of psychology/psychiatry? I am in the field of nursing and we (as a group) tend to be caregivers and not take care of ourselves. So when my father died I struggled because I was his caregiver and felt I had not been unsuccessful (even though I really did do everything that I could possibly do). Wishing you peace and comfort during this very difficult time.

My mother died this spring. While my parents may have had the best of intentions, and may have believed in their hearts that they loved me (this is what makes it so hard and heartbreaking), by and large I have been estranged from my family throughout my adult life. Notwithstanding superficial or geographic distance or lack of direct communication, in my heart I always yearned for reconciliation. I wrote about all that I felt to my mother, speaking from the heart and was met with dismissive ridicule or wholly ignored. I was able to have one brief visit with my mother a few years ago in which she was somewhat restrained in her abuses, but they were not absent. I went to visit her on Mother's Day a year ago and she put on a show of helplessness which was belied by her walking without assistance after having created the impression that this was not possible. Notwithstanding that she had never responded to the hurt I had expressed to her, she demanded that I stop everything and move in with her. She told me that it was "nothing" to be part of the profession that she implored me to join years ago. Her only response to me was, "I don't know how to write a wrong. I sent you some flowers." She sent flowers every year, not as a gift but as an act of aggression, to announce her relentless presence in my life. It was a source of great pain to me that seemingly (and I am not so sure) others would say, "well, just set boundaries." There never was a boundary that I set that my mother did not take sadistic glee in smashing. So that did me no good at all, and only served to underscore a sense of impotence.

I left that Mother's Day heartbroken, and having sought assistance from clergy, was told that I should shape up and then go live with her. This was after I had disclosed to this clergy person that, while there are thousands of children who were abused by clergy who eventually went home, I was home. I sought the assistance of a psychologist who would not permit me to speak, prattling on and on. When I sought to mention some of the issues I had with her "treatment," she told me that she "did not want to hear it."

I waited some time and then contacted a therapist in my mother's town. I wrote to my mother and said that inasmuch as our visit had not gone well, I wanted to invite her to meet with a professional. My letter was ignored. I wrote again. She responded by denying the need for professional assistance, saying only that she had much that she wished to tell me.... (ah, fear of abandonment and death and seduction all at once!), but that she would do as I wished.

I met with the therapist one evening, having travelled four hundred miles to do so. She praised me for breaking the cycle of abuse. I had waited a lifetime to hear those words, so they were deeply meaningful.

The next morning a meeting had been scheduled with my mother. She failed to appear on time. A social worker from the town called to say that she was having difficulty finding directions. I advised the therapist that this was a rescue diversion and that we ought not play into it. When half the meeting time had been used up, my mother arrived. I told her that I could not have a relationship with her unless she examined what she had done in the past and what she was presently doing to hurt me. She never responded to this, but rather asked what she should do and indeed said, just tell me what to do. (This would be a trap, of course, for she would be able to say, next time she abused, that she was only doing as I suggested.) While pretending not to know what to do or what was being discussed, she suddenly leaned over, grabbed my arm and said, "Are you taking your medication? Are you seeing someone?" Her response to being confronted with her abuses was to portray me as a mental patient. This is not the case. I am at pains to decide which would be more cruel: to make a remark like this which had no foundation in reality, or, God forbid, to make such a remark in the presence of a real mental illness.

She then demanded that I come "home" with her, as if no discussion had been had.

When she left the room, the therapist stated that my mother had to say what she said or else everything I had said would have been true. I was astonished. My mother had to abuse me in a professional setting, which she knew had meaning for me? The therapist next distanced herself from me, indicating that she did not want to confer with me by telephone. She did not respond to e-mail from me.

Two months later my mother became ill and died. A cousin with whom I had had no contact as an adult, and who lives one-half a mile from my mother, ridiculed me on several occasions and disclosed to me that she had not spoken with my mother in a year. She went on at length about my mother's shortcomings. I am well aware of them. However, she was dying and I found it highly inappropriate, just an exercise in self justification. At my mother's burial service she began discussing an unpaid insurance bill with me. The lapse of the policy could have resulted in tens of thousands of dollars in exposure. Perhaps she thought this shock would prompt me to ought to join my mother in the grave, and she would be the sole heir.

Throughout all the ceremonies, I was profoundly ill at ease, feeling scrutinized by others. It was very difficult to hear what I wonderful person my mother was. I did not recognize the person they were talking about.

It goes on and on. Last weekend I visited with an old friend from college and dared to disclose this information for this first time. She opined that all this is why I entered my profession. Nothing could break my heart again more. People who enter my field because of personal experience are dangerous and are the worst of the lot.

The bureaucracy of death grows ever more unpleasant, dealing with the physical items, the courts, etc. I made a trip to my mother's house some weeks ago just to allow myself to go in the house without fear. So the house has lost its haunting horror, but it is not pleasant, either.

This, then, is my story. I wonder if others are experiencing a similar complex grief.

[fiatjustitia]

I did not ask for a recommendation. I do not think it is appropriate for you to set yourself up as an expert and deliver a moral lecture here. What you have said is not at all helpful.

[SadRN]

Sorry. I was trying to be helpful. Just wishing you peace and comfort then...

I did not ask for a recommendation. I do not think it is appropriate for you to set yourself up as an expert and deliver a moral lecture here. What you have said is not at all helpful.

[Rage]

My mother died this spring. While my parents may have had the best of intentions, and may have believed in their hearts that they loved me (this is what makes it so hard and heartbreaking), by and large I have been estranged from my family throughout my adult life. Notwithstanding superficial or geographic distance or lack of direct communication, in my heart I always yearned for reconciliation. I wrote about all that I felt to my mother, speaking from the heart and was met with dismissive ridicule or wholly ignored. I was able to have one brief visit with my mother a few years ago in which she was somewhat restrained in her abuses, but they were not absent. I went to visit her on Mother's Day a year ago and she put on a show of helplessness which was belied by her walking without assistance after having created the impression that this was not possible. Notwithstanding that she had never responded to the hurt I had expressed to her, she demanded that I stop everything and move in with her. She told me that it was "nothing" to be part of the profession that she implored me to join years ago. Her only response to me was, "I don't know how to write a wrong. I sent you some flowers." She sent flowers every year, not as a gift but as an act of aggression, to announce her relentless presence in my life. It was a source of great pain to me that seemingly (and I am not so sure) others would say, "well, just set boundaries." There never was a boundary that I set that my mother did not take sadistic glee in smashing. So that did me no good at all, and only served to underscore a sense of impotence.

I left that Mother's Day heartbroken, and having sought assistance from clergy, was told that I should shape up and then go live with her. This was after I had disclosed to this clergy person that, while there are thousands of children who were abused by clergy who eventually went home, I was home. I sought the assistance of a psychologist who would not permit me to speak, prattling on and on. When I sought to mention some of the issues I had with her "treatment," she told me that she "did not want to hear it."

I waited some time and then contacted a therapist in my mother's town. I wrote to my mother and said that inasmuch as our visit had not gone well, I wanted to invite her to meet with a professional. My letter was ignored. I wrote again. She responded by denying the need for professional assistance, saying only that she had much that she wished to tell me.... (ah, fear of abandonment and death and seduction all at once!), but that she would do as I wished.

I met with the therapist one evening, having travelled four hundred miles to do so. She praised me for breaking the cycle of abuse. I had waited a lifetime to hear those words, so they were deeply meaningful.

The next morning a meeting had been scheduled with my mother. She failed to appear on time. A social worker from the town called to say that she was having difficulty finding directions. I advised the therapist that this was a rescue diversion and that we ought not play into it. When half the meeting time had been used up, my mother arrived. I told her that I could not have a relationship with her unless she examined what she had done in the past and what she was presently doing to hurt me. She never responded to this, but rather asked what she should do and indeed said, just tell me what to do. (This would be a trap, of course, for she would be able to say, next time she abused, that she was only doing as I suggested.) While pretending not to know what to do or what was being discussed, she suddenly leaned over, grabbed my arm and said, "Are you taking your medication? Are you seeing someone?" Her response to being confronted with her abuses was to portray me as a mental patient. This is not the case. I am at pains to decide which would be more cruel: to make a remark like this which had no foundation in reality, or, God forbid, to make such a remark in the presence of a real mental illness.

She then demanded that I come "home" with her, as if no discussion had been had.

When she left the room, the therapist stated that my mother had to say what she said or else everything I had said would have been true. I was astonished. My mother had to abuse me in a professional setting, which she knew had meaning for me? The therapist next distanced herself from me, indicating that she did not want to confer with me by telephone. She did not respond to e-mail from me.

Two months later my mother became ill and died. A cousin with whom I had had no contact as an adult, and who lives one-half a mile from my mother, ridiculed me on several occasions and disclosed to me that she had not spoken with my mother in a year. She went on at length about my mother's shortcomings. I am well aware of them. However, she was dying and I found it highly inappropriate, just an exercise in self justification. At my mother's burial service she began discussing an unpaid insurance bill with me. The lapse of the policy could have resulted in tens of thousands of dollars in exposure. Perhaps she thought this shock would prompt me to ought to join my mother in the grave, and she would be the sole heir.

Throughout all the ceremonies, I was profoundly ill at ease, feeling scrutinized by others. It was very difficult to hear what I wonderful person my mother was. I did not recognize the person they were talking about.

It goes on and on. Last weekend I visited with an old friend from college and dared to disclose this information for this first time. She opined that all this is why I entered my profession. Nothing could break my heart again more. People who enter my field because of personal experience are dangerous and are the worst of the lot.

The bureaucracy of death grows ever more unpleasant, dealing with the physical items, the courts, etc. I made a trip to my mother's house some weeks ago just to allow myself to go in the house without fear. So the house has lost its haunting horror, but it is not pleasant, either.

This, then, is my story. I wonder if others are experiencing a similar complex grief.

This is very similar to what I experienced with my mother. She had untreated depression, a personality disorder, and was a manipulative substance abuser who would emotionally abuse her children. For five years before her death, I was mostly without a relationship with her because she wanted me to enable her. I couldn't do it anymore. I had an argument with her the week before she died, and I feel horrible about that, but at the same time, I absolutely hate her for being so atrocious. Complicated doesn't even begin to express my grief. She could be wonderful and warm, or cold and a monster. How can anyone grieve in a normal way after experiencing such mixed states?