Unspoken burden between a mother and daughter

When I was fifteen, going on sixteen, I wrote an angry two-page letter to my mother after I ran away from home. I wanted her to know how tired I was of being abused by her husband, my dad. Well, I had just been pulled down the stairs and then dragged by my hair, so like, I had had enough. Not only that, after I was dragged, I swore at my father in defense of me to which my mother raised her hand, about to strike me for swearing at my dad. Can you believe it! But the crazy thing was after I ran away I never did send her the letter because I was afraid of hurting her feelings. 

Shortly after that mom moved to California to be near her mom. I remained in Connecticut because I didn’t want to live near her. We were civil and kind with each other, but I had all these mixed feelings that didn’t have words yet to describe what had happened and what was happening to me or our family. Over the years we had a ‘nice’ relationship. Frankly, my mom’s a nice person and because she’d moved to California it was easy to carry on surface conversations long distance.

However, I discovered that getting older doesn’t make the problem go away. I’m not sure that I even knew at the time there was a problem. Sure she irritated me and could push those buttons simply by a word or tone that said to me, she still doesn’t get it, after all these years she still doesn’t get it! 

Even in the aftermath of the crisis, I didn’t see it as a problem. It was just our family culture. How we talked to one another. It was in our family DNA. I was getting frustrated, but I didn’t know how to or that I could break away from the only family-language-way-of-doing-things that I was familiar with.

Well, three thousand miles away, you say to yourself, let it go. That is until you are forty and mom drops a verbal bomb that makes you face a crossroad. And that crossroad became the moment I had to make a choice.  

The first choice was to say I can’t deal with this anymore, I’m not talking to her anymore. I don’t care if I ever go to another family gathering. She doesn’t get it. And the list went on.

The second choice was to not talk to my mother for six weeks while I fleshed out an 8 page letter that was whittled down to 3 in an attempt to rebut what she said to me. The second choice was what I did.

I discovered I was breaking a cultural silent barrier that said you don’t talk back to your parents, your elders, your authority. Don’t misconstrue my words, for I do believe in the fabric of my foundational values, however I also believe that I have a right to defend myself and have a voice. I also have a right to be belligerent and rude, because, hey, what happened to me wasn’t fair. Therefore, I have a right to make a choice. But how I handled the letter to my mother was going to be a choice I made at how I wanted to get my message across.

Regardless of my effort to write a fair but honest letter, I of course had no idea how mom and her second husband would receive it. I had resolved that I was taking a risk and if this ruined our relationship so be it. I could no longer have shallow conversation that tip toed around the elephant in the room. But I had also resolved that because of the effort I put into the letter, to keep a door open, I could live with myself, even if mom chose not to accept my olive branch.

I came to this conclusion because our shallow relationship wasn’t helping either of us anymore. It wasn’t working. It wasn’t healthy. And our toes were bruised from tripping over the elephant every time we talked.

If I never said anything, I now believe the poison of the silence would have continued to fester inside of me taking charge of my soul, killing me before I was dead. 

Well can I share with you the good news! My mother accepted my olive branch! Because of my risk and her risk and our willingness to get real and talk about my upbringing, we have shed layers of hurt and have gotten to know each other in knew ways. Both of our worlds have changed because we are both free from the unspoken burden that we had carried. And this has also trickled down and poured into my siblings relationship with our mother!

Wounded Song Book Launch October 2017 L-R: brother, sister, mom  Michael, Cyndi Jo, Linda

LETTER EXCERPT as written in 1978: I’ve got just 2 yrs left of my childhood life till I’m leagally an young adult. I would like to spend those last 2, at least, in a family. Where I can be close, talk, be comfortable, get along, not spend every where I go wondering whether or not dads gonna be drunk when I get home and leave me alone or start something. Sounds silly huh – well, I do that every day too & no more.

Today, as I am writing this blog post, I hesitated whether to include this excerpt from my letter. But as I re-read this section God put on my heart that I may not have had that family unity when I was fifteen but today as a grown adult, I do. Perhaps he answered a prayer this many years later.

 
May this be encouraging to you that it is never too late for an attempt to repair!

Unresolved wounds can fester if left on their own too long. At first the wound is justified by the pain, the wrong, the injustice, but eventually it needs to be reckoned with in an honest way.

Trust me, I am painfully aware not everyone gets the chance I did with my mom. For I did not get this opportunity with my dad while he was alive. And his final words to me were not kind.

The turning point that has helped me begin to heal with both my parents was when I learned that forgiving does not mean condoning the wrong that was done to me. Rather, forgiving is for me so I don’t turn into a dried up angry old apple. 

Whether your parent (mom or dad) is dead or alive, accepts the olive branch or not, may you be encouraged to try and find resolve so you can live a brand new day. For His mercies are new every morning and He wants to put a new song in your mouth!

link for: Wounded Song a memoir by Tammy Sue Willey
(my mother’s verbal bomb is shared in the chapter The Gift).