Carol Frye
Mother’s Day.
I had ended all communication with my toxic Mom. But I needed some type of closure. I needed a way to process my grief over a dead relationship with a live person.
So I read a book titled “Mothers Who Can’t Love” by Susan Forward. There were some writing exercises in there that really helped. I didn’t do all of them, but I want to write about the ones I did, and how they helped.
The first one I implemented began with a suggestion to hold a funeral for the hope that my Mom was going to change. I developed that idea a little more, and let my imagination and writing merge. I imagined my Mom’s funeral with only myself there, and took inventory of everything she killed in our relationship including hope. I remember this sense of calm as I watched her remains in that casket, no movement of her chest or lips, no more disdain in her closed eyes. I remember being flooded with an overwhelming sense of relief. I knew I had no regrets, because I knew I had already tried and failed every option available within the limits of lawful behavior, except estrangement. Then, I listed what else was in that casket with her, specifically what she had killed in our relationship. Hope, peace, confidence, safety, comfort, kindness, acceptance, unconditional love. The absence of all of these made reunion impossible.
A second writing exercise recommended that I write myself a letter, adult me apologizing to child me for being unable to render adequate protection from the emotional abuse inflicted by my Mom. I developed that idea to make it mine. My opinion was, my Mom was the one who should be writing a series of apology letters to me. So I wrote out each one myself. I knew what I needed her to say to me. Gracious, that was an awesome exercise.
Next, I implemented an exercise the book never mentioned. But I felt like it was exactly what I needed. I got a composition book, and called it my therapy journal. I wrote down all the wrathful words I never had the chance to say to my Mom. In this way I heard myself, even though she never heard me. This exercise reduced my wrath from a whole national park spanning hundreds of square miles to a cute little campfire. Then I began reading “The Freedom of Forward” and that really helped, too.
I learned that estrangement plus mothering my own heart plus writing therapy is the healthiest option available. I deserve the Mother’s Day flowers, and a life that makes me happy.
