The Mechanics of Estrangement

It finally happened. I stopped interacting with my mother about a year and a half ago, and she’s finally noticed it.

I hate the idea of not talking to my family. When you tell people you are estranged, they usually think in terms of your pettiness and lack of ability to forgive. I used to have an idea that if people communicated, all problems could be solved. But, of course, no. Finally, to get healthy, I’ve cut my ties. It’s never been easy.

Twenty-five years ago I struck out, a brave young woman on my way to college and independence. Distance from my family helped me understand how dysfunctional we were. I rolled up my sleeves, and in the tradition of all Type A people, I figured I could change things.

No one was interested in my change. David, my counselor, summed it up: “They all came out of the cave, looked at the sun, shrugged, and went back inside.” They continued to quarrel, to beat each other, to berate each other, to disrespect each other.

And I opted to stay part of that. I lived away from home. I married. Yet, I would allow myself to be upset by them, to expect and hope for change, to want them to make their lives better. In the wishing part of my mind’s eye, I wanted an idealized family. I wanted to belong somewhere. I had my husband and his family, but the urge to belong to my own hit hard. It was a hollow, illusory expectation, that my family would become something else, and it was wrong of me to hope for it.

I made a family of my own, and slowly and steadily have learned about important things like boundaries, which I had no concept of, and respect, which I think is more important than love, and irresponsibility, which I enjoy in a way I couldn’t when my life was wound up in people who were fundamentally broken.

I knew I should severe ties with my family. I didn’t make them feel good. I reminded them, both literally and figuratively, of their failings. We couldn’t talk. Every time we’d talk about abuse, it would be starting over, conveniently forgotten, or untrue, or not important. I was like Janus–a dual life of a functional person, and someone who could insert myself in a dysfunctional Catherine-shaped hole.

My family changed as we aged in some ways. Other things stayed the same. My mother supported my father’s choices and never remembered her own abuses. My older brother’s yahoo groups page that he pulled up on my computer looks like a sexual predator’s. These problems never went away, and I never made excuses for them, but I stewed about them and didn’t cut my ties. Hope springs eternal for something better, always.

The situation changed after a while. My father died in 1993. My mother left her ramshackle home in 2006, and since she no longer lived with my older brother, gave me the gift of a nod toward sanity for two years. Things were looking up.

There were still problems. Dad’s picture was always prominently displayed when I went over. I talked about it with her, but there was a script that meant no change. Her role in our abuse as children bothered me more, rather than less. When the older brother moved back in, when everything went back to base yet again, that’s when I got out.

I mourn the loss of my family. There continue counseling, advice, depression medication, and ruminations on self worth. Wonderful people in my life reinforced unconditional love for me. I moved forward. I’ve never been comfortable with being estranged. I have to stay so, for my own self worth and my own morality.

What there wasn’t, for a year, was any effort on my family’s part to find out about my silence. Those efforts have begun in the last few months, and last night she understood that I didn’t want to talk to her. She apologized, and she hung up.

No one wins in a situation like this. No one will be happy. The question people have to ask when they find themselves in situations that can damage them is how can they make themselves the safest. I can’t make her happy. I can’t pretend I’m okay with our family’s problems. The best I can do is protect myself from further emotional damage.

Being estranged is unfortunate. I feel for my family and I feel for me. I respect myself too much to pretend everything is okay, to continue to stay connected. I no longer hope. I accept what is.

Clinically, coldly, but necessarily estranged. Still, my heart remembers it’s supposed to ache when you’re cold to your mother, and that’s probably why I wrote this entry today.

Catherine

Author: Catherine Schaff-Stump

Catherine Schaff-Stump writes fiction for children and young adults. Her most recent book, The Vessel of Ra, is the first book in the Klaereon Scroll series. She is currently working on its sequel, as well as penning the middle grade adventures of Abigail Rath, monster hunter. View all posts by Catherine Schaff-Stump