Breaking up with your Parents and the Waves it causes

It's awkward to have the conversation. Someone who I haven't seen in a while asks, "How are your parents?" This happened to me recently in the check-out lane at the store; an innocent question asked by a former co-worker. I rarely, if ever, tell the truth in these situations. 

"They're fine," I lie, knowing that they're more than likely not fine. They're getting older and none of their children are there helping them move furniture, put up their Christmas tree, or sitting down and having coffee with them. They haven't seen most of their grandchildren in years and have a grandson whom they've never met. These things are just some of the consequences of their actions, the things that more than likely lead most of their peers to feel sorry for them. Those peers also hold judgment towards myself and my siblings. 

Society holds mothers on a bit of a pedestal. They're expected to be the ones to do the middle of the night feedings, change the diapers, and too often when a father is left in charge he's babysitting. We spend more on Mother's Day than Father's Day; sending flowers, giving gifts, and taking them out to lunch after attending church with them, maybe even for just that one Sunday. I've been there. I've done it. I've been that daughter. 

I can't tell you exactly when I realized that my upbringing was far from normal. I was raised in churches and a private school. The word "Christian" is right there in the school's name. This was the only community I knew, the only people deemed Christ-like enough to have in our lives. The school I attended had a principal who swatted children with a paddle when they misbehaved, but only if a parent had signed that waiver giving her permission. My dad signed it, telling me, "I knew you'd never need it."

To me the physical, emotional, and religious abuse was normal. Being afraid of getting left behind in the rapture, trying to control my thoughts of boys or other sinful things around my mother was just what I did. She had the gift of discernment, she'd tell me. God would tell her my thoughts, my sins, my weaknesses. 

There's even more to this story, more things that come back into the forefront of my mind from time to time. It usually leads to me laughing and shaking my head; which I now know after avoiding therapy for decades and finally caving in will cause said therapist to give me the saddest look one could imagine. It's both validating and infuriating at the same time. The validation that came when I told a complete stranger who had no ties whatsoever or preconceived notions these stories will forever be invaluable. I suppose this is when it really hit home that no, these things I experienced were not what anyone would label as normal or healthy. 

I told my therapist just a few months ago that I thought it was time that I fire her. "My goal is for you to fire me," was what she'd tell me on occasion. I had talked through so much, gone to the town where I was raised and my parents still live without the classic mental breakdown and fear. I was better. I still had questions but my guilt and sadness had transitioned to righteous anger; something I accepted as healthy in my situation. She didn't disagree.

Thanks to those sessions and a nightly dose of Zoloft I was on a path to healing. These past few months something occurred that took the wind out of my sails. My aunt had cancer. It was bad. She wasn't going to be around much longer. The decision I made to not establish contact with her is one of the most difficult ones I've ever had to make. It's difficult for people who aren't related to someone with narcissistic personal disorder to understand the hold they can have over people in their lives. I knew that if I opened that door my mother would shove her way back into my life. 

My aunt passed away Tuesday morning in a hospice home. When my sister called to tell me I didn't cry. Crying is something I've never really been very good at. Sure I cry at sad or sweet commercials. Watching "About Time" or "The Time Traveler's Wife" will bring tears every time. Outside stimulus can be helpful for the emotionally stunted. 

I read the obituary last night and my final thought was, why didn't they pick a picture where she had a genuine smile? My memories of her and the realization that I'll never see her again didn't really hit me until just this afternoon while I laid on my bed wrapped in a towel, fresh from a shower, trying to convince myself to put on clothes. 

When you cut contact with those close to you there are waves that seem to swallow up other things in your life, other people. For years I couldn't stand even driving past the exits of the highway that lead to their house. Seeing an Asian woman out in public who has a permed bob can take my breath away. I will never again step foot into my favorite Korean restaurants for fear that she'll be there. 

My aunt, my 이모, was one of those that got swept away from my life. While laying in bed those memories started to flood their way back to me; the Christmas Eve we stayed up all night while she played guitar and sang Christmas carols, watching Korean soap operas with her in her tiny apartment, the way her hands were always rough to the touch due to hard work, the way she'd get embarrassed easily and swat your hands away when you complimented her, the fresh okra she gave to me from her garden. "You fry it, it's very good." 

There are other waves, people who are no longer in my life, the reason being traced back to my parents. My sister and I have held onto each other tightly, determined to not let our mother stand between us despite her best efforts in the past. We've had our own share of drama, as all siblings do, but it was only recently when I realized that the most explosive ones were a direct result of our mother's actions. 

It's so easy to blame it all on her, it has been for years. Only recently have I been able to lay some of the responsibility on my dad as well. Growing up I often declared myself a daddy's girl. I thought we were close, I thought we had a relationship unique to the rest of the world. The person who sees the abuse and gaslights their own children into believing that it's only happening because that person loves us makes them just as much the abuser. This is one of the hardest realizations I've had to come to. 

These waves, these lost connections, these feelings of self-doubt and worry that anything I do as a mother is just a reflection of my own; they're things that will probably never leave me. I'll never get back these last five years that I lost with my aunt. There are regrets. There's loss. There's sadness and blame, guilt, and loneliness. So much loneliness at times. 

I have friends who have lost parents to death, we all do. They mourn that loss in their lives. What does one do though when they lose their parents not from death but by choice? Do they have the right to mourn? If breaking those connections sends shock waves into other relationships or family the same question has to be asked. Do I have the right to mourn those losses when they were, essentially, of my own doing? I know that if I'd gone to my aunt on a Sunday morning my mother probably would've been at church. I know that if I'd just picked up the phone and called it would have been safe, but I never did. And this is something I'll have to live with. 

Since her passing my cousins and my brother-in-law who had contact with her towards the end all assured me that she knew, she understood why, but there's still guilt and sadness. I suppose I'm in mourning, not just over her death but also the fact that I'd lost her years before. It's something that I know I'll carry with me. 

I have a choice to make. Yesterday evening I sat down at our kitchen table with my laptop in front of me and composed an email to my mother. When I broke up with her all those years before I sent one too, but so much was held back. I even alluded to the fact that I might send occasional updates or pictures of her grandchildren, which I've never done. Last night I held nothing back, had my unflinchingly supportive husband read it, hit send and took a deep breath. Every time the email alert goes off on my phone I look at it with what feels like one eye open. I want her to send back an angry email. I want her to send back a pathetic email begging for forgiveness. I don't want her to email me or attempt to contact me ever again. I miss her, I don't even want to be told when she dies. 

My grandfather, my 할아버지, had snow white hair and was the most gentle soul I've ever known. My grandmother, my 할머니, was a tiny woman with soft skin and fire in everything she did. My mother traveled throughout Europe in her young age, even singing classical opera on stages in Germany. There are pictures. She was beautiful, radiant, someone to envy.

There's other family; cousins, two uncles, two more uncles who have passed that I never met. Then there's the brother that I haven't spoken with in years, the one that stings the most. These waves, these people, those places I can't go, they've become my own haunting. I push them away in my waking hours but they often make their way into my dreams, especially my parents. In these dreams there are two extremes. One, everything is fine. I was the one overreacting. There was never any abuse, never any harm done to me or my relationship with my husband, my children. Two, I'm screaming at them.

That email last night was me screaming. It was my anger, my vows to her that my children will never know this pain. The wave for them is not seeing their maternal grandparents. My youngest son barely remembers them. If it weren't for their close-by, supportive paternal grandparents the guilt I feel would be so much greater.

I've been independent and self-sufficient since a young age. I had to be. But that doesn't mean I was grown-up, that's the part I'm still learning. Forgiving myself isn't easy. Forgiving my parents still feels impossible. Accepting those waves, but at the same time taking the loss of my aunt as a lesson and jumping into the water without fear is...well it's something I'm terrified of. I was never a very strong swimmer, but I'm becoming a stronger person.

Youngae Kim Fonner

August 10, 1946-April 2, 2019

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