A Time to Walk Away

“I don’t know if I love you or hate you!”

Those words shot out of my mouth like a bullet as I sat confronting my mother, who didn’t even flinch. We hadn’t spoken in months. I never wanted it to come to this, and only God knows how hard I tried to hold the relationship together, to be what she wanted me to be, to make her happy, to fill the craters in her soul. But I failed. I was just a child myself, drowning in my mother’s grief.

I was her protector, her emotional empath child, easily controlled by the guilt and shame she lavishly poured on my head. When I resisted, she used scripture and religion to further shame and punish me. But I was not her golden child. I was a wounded wildcat, fighting for every morsel of my being.

But between the oppressive silent treatments, the glaring eyes, and the fragile china-doll act, I was always the one to break down and apologize. The shunning was too much to bear. Thus, the emotional mold was created. No matter how hard I tried to break it, it became more firmly set in the concrete of manipulation and control. My voice, my rights, and my life were overruled by a drunken puppeteer.

The never-ending, losing battles were as fierce as the raging fire consuming my soul. Like a corpse rising from the ashes of torment, I transformed into a monster of self-destruction.

Gone was the sweet, gentle soul I once was. My spirit was crushed beneath the heavy burden that was never mine to bear. Like falling down a flight of stairs, I spiraled into the depths of depression and despair. I’m a good-for-nothing failure, too damaged and too dangerous for anyone to get too close, lest they arouse the monster within.

It seems my mother was hell-bent on destroying my life. Of course, no one would believe that. She hid it well beneath the cloak of religion and her fragile, china-doll facade. But after two years of weekly cognitive therapy sessions, I faced the unbelievable truth: Someone had to pay for my mother’s pain, and that someone was me. I was the target. The scapegoat chosen to die beneath the corpse of my mother’s abusers.

And yet, the most agonizing thing I have ever done in my life was walking out of hers. And I couldn’t have chosen a worse time. My father had just died. And again, in her twisted mind, I was somehow responsible for her grief. I couldn’t comfort her. I couldn’t please her. I couldn’t whisk her away to another planet where she could live happily ever after. So I left her to wallow in her own pain. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had nothing left to give her but the raging monster she created in me.

Of course, no one understood why or how I could be so cold and calloused. “She’s still your mother,” church people would say. “You picked a bad time,” my sister said. And others would come to me, reporting my mother’s surprising dismay, “I don’t know what I did to make Sandi act this way.”

Through therapy and the unconditional love and support of my husband and my son, I pushed through the anguish and pain of the unconventional choice I made. Walking out on your mother is a cardinal sin. But a mother’s emotional abuse, the bloody wounds no one sees, is commendable?

After six long years, the Holy Spirit tugged at my heartstrings, compelling me to make amends. I was much stronger and wiser. She had no more power over me. I walked through the flames of destruction, empowered and refined. I can see myself more clearly now. Yet, though the monster inside me is more at ease, it refuses to die. And that remains my biggest struggle today. PTSD. It never goes away.

The relationship was as good as it could be. I changed, but my mother didn’t. She was more cautious and more cleverly subtle in her desperate need to control me. Spending too much time with her was like walking on thin ice, never knowing when it would break beneath me. Forgiving her is the glue that really held it together.

Five years later, I not only grieved her death, but also the death of my inner self. I had reached yet another confusing plateau. Who am I, now? What am I? Am I nothing more than a broken vessel, unable to contain anything good? My heart was one big blister of anger, grief, and confusion.

With her death came the ultimate betrayal, the fatal bullet through the heart and soul. In her freezing cold denial, shrouded in the smugness of death, she won. I lost. She snatched the core of my being and took it to the grave with her. The words I longed to hear will never pierce her lips: I’m sorry.

How can I live with the belief that everything wrong in the relationship was my fault? That she, the mother, was always right, and I, the daughter, was always wrong. Does the daughter not deserve respect? Does she not deserve her own voice, her own mind? Is she to remain a toddler, unable to think and choose for herself?

How can I move on from here when I don’t even know who I am anymore? How do I learn to swim through the emotional turmoil without drowning in my grief? I feel naked, stripped to the bone, for all to see my wretchedness. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Like a wild beast searching for shelter and warmth, my spirit shivers in the cold, dark, bleakness of grief.

Even with God’s help, the night can be ever so long, dark, and lonely. Without faith in his love, grace, and forgiveness, I wouldn’t have made it. Even now, I have to remind myself that just because I can’t feel his nearness doesn’t mean that he’s not there. He has walked with me through the darkest, lowest times of my life, and continues healing my recurring, festered wounds. How does anyone get through it without God?

Relationships can be wonderful, and they can be deadly. I have to remind myself that I can’t fix anyone. That’s not my job. God is the only one who can fix a broken soul. By trying the impossible to fix my mother, she ended up crushing me beyond human repair. God is the only one who has the power to restore our broken souls.

I will never remain in a toxic relationship again. I will never allow anyone to crush my spirit again. I will never tolerate anyone making me feel like a worthless piece of trash again. It’s too painful, and recovery is too long and arduous. I’ve learned to value who I am, whether anyone else does or not. I have to live in my own skin, and I choose to live in it in peace.

My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9 NIV).