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<blockquote data-quote="Copabanana" data-source="post: 657870" data-attributes="member: 18958"><p>Where to start Hopeandjoy? I could have paid a psychiatrist $250 an hour and not received the clarity I got from your post.</p><p></p><p>I have been dealing with my Mother's death and dying, now almost 3 years on.</p><p></p><p>Decisions I made caring for her as she was dying, the fact I distanced myself from her during most of my adult years...let alone the reality of our difficult relationship, have made it hard to go on or to let her go.</p><p></p><p>The thing to remember here is this: nothing I did or did not do would have been good enough. Of that, I am clear.</p><p></p><p>There was never enough room in my mother's world for the two of us. As you say, it was her world or none. Always.</p><p></p><p>The problem was I loved her. Had I not loved her, the stakes would not have been so high. But I did, and I learned how much as she was dying and after she died.</p><p></p><p>I could not and cannot still forgive myself for not living every second close to her, which I did not.</p><p></p><p>I have lived these past 2 years trying to make this so.</p><p></p><p>As if I chose to die with her; I am paying with my life.</p><p></p><p>The problem as I see it is this:</p><p></p><p>Had I lived close to her, I would never have existed as a person, only an appendage or reflection of her.</p><p></p><p>There were no other terms. Hers or none. And it was that that I was unable to accept.</p><p></p><p>I lived a full and independent life. On my terms, I had thought. I was wrong. I have lost the quote of yours that says it so beautifully, when you compare the contorted love of our mothers to that of our children. She had been all twisted up inside me. Always. It was that I had not known. Like I do now.</p><p></p><p>Upon her death, I accepted belatedly her terms. I surrendered my self almost completely. I began to attack myself as if in her voice.I scapegoated myself:</p><p>Since she has died I have surrendered my self almost completely giving up everything that I chose to define me. In a vain attempt to atone for having sought to live a more or less full life, the life I wanted and worked for,</p><p></p><p>I gave up. Everything.</p><p></p><p>And went to bed.</p><p></p><p>I had distanced from my Mom at around age 30. Everything had come to a head.</p><p></p><p>Her terms had been clear. Everything for me. Nothing for you.</p><p>To live, my only choice had been to refuse her terms.</p><p></p><p>I did not look back, not speaking to her or seeing her for many years. I barely thought of her. Sometimes, when I did, I thought she could well be dead. When I thought this, I felt not one thing.</p><p></p><p>I lived, I thought, as I wanted. Until she died. Realizing then,</p><p> So, I am still in bed.</p><p></p><p>Only now, approaching 2 years since my Mom's death...I did not know what you do:After she died I wanted to die with her, believing on some level that I could bring her back, have another chance. For what? To have another chance to give up my life for her?</p><p></p><p>But that is what I did. I gave up everything I had built for me, in me...paying that price that she might live again...so that I could give up my life for her...? Again? Now at the tail end of my life, accepting those same impossible terms?</p><p></p><p>Even I begin to get it....</p><p></p><p>So, we have a plan here, because others have gone before me:</p><p>It is so hard, still, to get it. I lived a life, I thought, of self-determination and authenticity.</p><p></p><p>What caught me up, I think, was guilt.</p><p></p><p>I have spent my life trying to understand what exactly was my crime? Was my separate existence impossible for her? </p><p></p><p>She had wanted to be a mother. Would a male child have been more acceptable? Was that I looked like her? Was it my courage in separating and challenging her? Was I loved too much by my father? </p><p></p><p>Or would nothing have satisfied her even partially.</p><p></p><p>She always justified her selfishness and absolute need to defend, as does my sister, holding others responsible never themselves. </p><p></p><p>Was that my crime, never ceding completely to be scapegoated? Or never ceasing to hold her responsible? Or wanting Mother to accept her responsibility or culpability?</p><p></p><p>Are these questions best left to rest? Or not? Or, best answered as I go, as I complete my life? Having, first, gotten up out of bed....</p><p></p><p>Now in the tender, merciful and forgiving voice that Cedar has been modeling.</p><p></p><p>Cedar confronts these issues NOW so as to protect her children, now grown, from her reenacting the damaged and damaging mothers we carry within us.</p><p>I vote with Cedar. To live consciously, with integrity and kindness. I thought I had done so.</p><p></p><p>But omitted the most important piece: Especially towards myself.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Copabanana, post: 657870, member: 18958"] Where to start Hopeandjoy? I could have paid a psychiatrist $250 an hour and not received the clarity I got from your post. I have been dealing with my Mother's death and dying, now almost 3 years on. Decisions I made caring for her as she was dying, the fact I distanced myself from her during most of my adult years...let alone the reality of our difficult relationship, have made it hard to go on or to let her go. The thing to remember here is this: nothing I did or did not do would have been good enough. Of that, I am clear. There was never enough room in my mother's world for the two of us. As you say, it was her world or none. Always. The problem was I loved her. Had I not loved her, the stakes would not have been so high. But I did, and I learned how much as she was dying and after she died. I could not and cannot still forgive myself for not living every second close to her, which I did not. I have lived these past 2 years trying to make this so. As if I chose to die with her; I am paying with my life. The problem as I see it is this: Had I lived close to her, I would never have existed as a person, only an appendage or reflection of her. There were no other terms. Hers or none. And it was that that I was unable to accept. I lived a full and independent life. On my terms, I had thought. I was wrong. I have lost the quote of yours that says it so beautifully, when you compare the contorted love of our mothers to that of our children. She had been all twisted up inside me. Always. It was that I had not known. Like I do now. Upon her death, I accepted belatedly her terms. I surrendered my self almost completely. I began to attack myself as if in her voice.I scapegoated myself: [I][/I]Since she has died I have surrendered my self almost completely giving up everything that I chose to define me. In a vain attempt to atone for having sought to live a more or less full life, the life I wanted and worked for, I gave up. Everything. And went to bed. I had distanced from my Mom at around age 30. Everything had come to a head. Her terms had been clear. Everything for me. Nothing for you. To live, my only choice had been to refuse her terms. I did not look back, not speaking to her or seeing her for many years. I barely thought of her. Sometimes, when I did, I thought she could well be dead. When I thought this, I felt not one thing. I lived, I thought, as I wanted. Until she died. Realizing then, So, I am still in bed. Only now, approaching 2 years since my Mom's death...I did not know what you do:After she died I wanted to die with her, believing on some level that I could bring her back, have another chance. For what? To have another chance to give up my life for her? But that is what I did. I gave up everything I had built for me, in me...paying that price that she might live again...so that I could give up my life for her...? Again? Now at the tail end of my life, accepting those same impossible terms? Even I begin to get it.... So, we have a plan here, because others have gone before me: It is so hard, still, to get it. I lived a life, I thought, of self-determination and authenticity. What caught me up, I think, was guilt. I have spent my life trying to understand what exactly was my crime? Was my separate existence impossible for her? She had wanted to be a mother. Would a male child have been more acceptable? Was that I looked like her? Was it my courage in separating and challenging her? Was I loved too much by my father? Or would nothing have satisfied her even partially. She always justified her selfishness and absolute need to defend, as does my sister, holding others responsible never themselves. Was that my crime, never ceding completely to be scapegoated? Or never ceasing to hold her responsible? Or wanting Mother to accept her responsibility or culpability? Are these questions best left to rest? Or not? Or, best answered as I go, as I complete my life? Having, first, gotten up out of bed.... Now in the tender, merciful and forgiving voice that Cedar has been modeling. Cedar confronts these issues NOW so as to protect her children, now grown, from her reenacting the damaged and damaging mothers we carry within us. I vote with Cedar. To live consciously, with integrity and kindness. I thought I had done so. But omitted the most important piece: Especially towards myself. [/QUOTE]
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