A Postscript to my previous post. This is really hard for me to share. How I've debated doing so. One of the reasons it took me so long to write the book is that I refused to do anything that would ever hurt my Mom. There's still a strong desire, and always will be, to "honour my Mom". I've forgiven her and am moving on. And as much as possible, unless it's an absolute necessary part of my story, I try not to damage her memory, especially for so many others whose lives she touched, blessed and changed in so many wonderful ways. The things she said and did to damage me were NOT all that she was. She was an incredibly charitable, giving, generous woman, the epitome of Santa Claus every day of the year, one of the most phenomenal women you'd ever want to meet. It would take me another whole book to describe and give evidence of the amazing wonderful woman she was.

But the reason I'm bringing this up here is that this is precisely what made it impossible for me to ever talk to anyone about what was going on at home. First, I figured nobody would ever believe me, because of what a beloved generous woman she was outside of our home. Everybody adored my Mom, including me, and rightly so.

Second, I truly didn't want to believe that she was doing these things to me deliberately...I decided it had to be my fault, that if I was the perfect loving daughter I ought to be, she wouldn't treat me like that. Since she did, it had to mean that I was a wicked and horrible daughter. The agony caused by that image of myself is what led me to my first suicidal tendencies at the age of 13. Nothing I did ever seemed to be right or good enough. The harder I tried, the worse the abuse got. I couldn't live with myself, knowing I was bringing such pain and heartache to a Mother I loved so much. It broke my heart. She deserved better...which is why I thought she'd be happier and better off if I was gone.

It wasn't until my breakdown when I was 29 years old, that I dared to believe my first instincts, that my Mother was sick and had been wrong to treat me the way she did. As soon as I dared to be open to that possibility, healing began. Because it was true. My Mother WAS wrong.

I have since grown to recognize that my Mom had always needed a scapegoat in her life, and as long as I was around, I was that scapegoat. It only ended when my sister-in-law came into the family...from that moment on, she bore the brunt of that side of my Mom, and I finally saw in my Mom's eyes her recognition of me as the beloved daughter I had always yearned to be.

[ September 08, 2005, 03:46 PM: Message edited by: Eagle Heart ]