I was listening to a friend a while ago as she was talking to her mom on the phone. It was nothing out of the ordinary. It was a short, two-way conversation in which she said something about her day and answered a scheduling question. It made my heart hurt. 

I always knew I had a difficult relationship with my dad, but it’s only been in the last couple years that I’ve realized my relationship with my mother was something out of the ordinary. Don’t get me wrong. She’s a gentle person who loves me and means well. The problem is that she’s never dealt with all the pain of her past, and it’s leaked into the present in unexpected ways. She’s been so desperate for security and happiness, the hole in her has been so big, that she’s looked to her only child to fill it. She hasn’t meant to. She’d deny it if asked, but her actions are contrary to her conscious desires and in line with her subconscious ones, instead. That’s my interpretation, anyway. No one can know all the intricacies of someone else’s heart. 

I got a note from her yesterday and wisely waited until morning to read it. “Thank you for your notes, especially since we haven’t been able to talk to you for a  year-and-a-half. Could you call at Christmas?”   The tone was pained.  I wrote out a tactful reply in which I expressed empathy and reminded her that it’s only been a year and two months, although it’s probably felt longer. I told her my next step involves occasional 5-10 minute phone calls and I’ve been thinking about the holidays. I folded the paper. I sealed the envelope. And then I wanted to tear it into tiny pieces and yell, “This is not all about YOU!”  I haven’t done it, but I want to. 

I broke off verbal contact after having a friend look me in the eye and say, “Your parents are killing you.” I’d come back from taking care of Mom for two weeks. I came home to Seattle in a fog, with circles under my eyes, thinner, and with back pain. I couldn’t think clearly. Another friend described me as six feet under, even though I’d spent the week following the visit with Mom being loved and cared for by some of my dearest friends in the world, who weren’t freaked out by having me curled up in a fetal position at their feet the whole time. 

I’ve always been the dutiful daughter. Until last October I spoke with my parents for an hour or so every week on Sundays. I’ve never missed a birthday and have always connected on all the other holidays. Etcetera. I don’t want to recount all the moments of my self-proclaimed goodness. I’m certainly not perfect. 

I know how hurt my parents have been in their own lives, and even as a result of my actions. I can tell their intentions from their actual behavior. I love them. But the thing is, I cannot save them, and although they would deny it, that’s exactly what they want me to do. They’re looking to me for security, meaning, and connection as they age. They want to move to Seattle because I am here, even though they loathe big cities, cloudy weather, traffic, and getting used to new environments. But I am here. Me. I can feel the pressure building as I type. 

I am the one person with whom my mother can be real. I am the one person my father can trust. I am the one person who can bring them the most joy of anyone or anything on planet earth and they want connection with me more than anything. Except. Except when I try to tell them about my life they interrupt. They don’t want to hear it because my life is 2000 miles from theirs.  I can’t tell them about my struggles because they’re full of their own pain. We sit for an hour on Skype, often saying little or nothing, because I can’t tell them I’m moving “home” and they can’t bear to hang up. I can never speak to just one of them, or the other will be tortured and pass that pain to the other. I basically had to take a break from verbal communication because I mean both too much and too little to them. They hold me too high, and they hold me away, so they don’t really know who I am. I got a note that said,  “I’m sorry if we’ve put a lot of pressure on you, but you know you’re all we have.”  Strangely enough, that didn’t make me feel better. 

The holidays are around the corner. I’ve been thinking about them a lot, knowing how sad they are that we’re still not talking. I started sending a card every week over a month ago, hoping that would help. And then I get the response that basically says “Since we can’t talk to you, thanks for the token cards. Please (have enough compassion) to call at Christmas.”  I might have done it. I may have thought, “Gosh, I do love my parents and I know they’re sad. I think I’ll give them a call.”  The irony is that since I feel guilt manipulation at work, I feel obligated not to do so. I’ve pandered to their need for me all my life. I’m the only one who can stop it. 

I’ll probably call sometime during the holidays from my therapist’s office. I’m just so deeply grieved that we don’t get to have a natural kind of relationship in which we get to be friends and have conversations that can run in two directions. They’re wounded. I forgive them, but I grieve, and I still want to run around flailing my arms and yelling my most offensive curse words in their front yard and screaming that I am not enough. 

It’s at this point I feel the need to insert a sort of commercial break, something on a completely different level. This is an advertisement for friends. Friends rock. I have some of the dearest and most wonderful friends in the whole world, and that’s not a hyperbole.  We’d give blood for each other. People have been writing their thankfulnesses all over Facebook lately, in a way that I both appreciate and detest. I get annoyed by reality avoidance and overly positive clif-notes to people’s lives, even though what must be the larger part of my heart is sincerely happy that each and every one has something for which to be grateful. I guess I’m complex that way. So here’s my contribution. I’m unendingly grateful for genuine friendships in which we can share, and hold, and disagree, and laugh, and look really pathetic after the kind of cry for which there’s never enough Kleenex. And who knows if I’d really know enough to invest in these relationships if all my needs were met by relatives. I’d be missing out on so much diversity!  I love diversity!  It scares me if I’m around too many people who agree with me for too long. I want to be surrounded by differences that make me grow. 

I guess that’s really what I want for my parents, too. I want them to branch out, and look for meaning in places that don’t include me. I want them to know how valuable and precious they are, even without my attention. I want them to know what it’s like to have an ugly cry in front of someone unrelated, who will still think they’re beautiful.  I can’t make that happen, but I can take care of me. I can do my part in failing to meet their expectations while doing my best to meet legitimate and practical needs. I can keep loving them and holding my boundaries. I can be their daughter, but not their god, and I’m doing them a favor at that. I suck as a god!  No wonder they’re confused and disappointed. So to any of you who know my parents, knock their socks off with some big hugs. Bowl them over with affection. I’ll thank you for it later.