Mothers.

There have been times when me and my mom were not close.

There have been things said that should not have been said.

But now, I see my mother’s own childhood trauma and adult abuse formed those words. 

Was my father abusive? Not to me.

Was he an abusive husband? I don’t doubt that.

Was I a mouthy little shit of a daughter? Yeah.

My bonus daughter Rebecca is learning a lot about her birth mother as she matures, and it’s heartbreaking.

She’s learning that her birth mother has lied to her all her life.

But it’s her mom, and boundaries are fucking hard.

Because he was not an abusive father, I didn’t tell Coraline that her dad was abusive to me. 

I didn’t come up with ways to drive them apart. I made sure he knew about her events. I didn’t tell her that he chose not to attend her games when she played sports. She could see he wasn’t there.

The same way my dad wasn’t there. He didn’t attend events that were important to me. Whether my mother was there or not.

Westley missed a lot of Rebecca’s special days.

He wasn’t invited. He wasn’t told in advance.

When he wasn’t there, the birth mother could use that.

Now she knows some of the things she was told were not true.

I hope you can follow. My ADHD makes the mental connections between each of these family dynamics faster than I can type. 

I love my mother, and since I always believed she wouldn’t make it past her 70s I’m taking advantage of all the extra days and weeks and months and years we are given.

She and Coraline have a special bond.

She is sensitive to criticism, perhaps more than me.

She remembers a particularly unkind thing I said to her as a preteen.

She remembers an offhand comment her own father made when she was a young girl.

She remembers a lot of things said by my father when they were together.

We are more careful with our words now.

Rebecca’s mother blocked me on Facebook, then told Rebecca that I blocked her.

She can’t be the victim if she’s honest.

We now believe that she was actively working to sabotage my relationship with Rebecca, especially during her teen years.

We had a strained relationship for some time.

We’re closer now than ever, and I don’t think her mother approves.

I notice little things. I am bothered by little things.

It’s those things I see as a hyper sensitive, highly empathetic sufferer of a severe disorder.

I wonder what it’s like to be neurotypical. For little things to seem insignificant.

But this story is my reality, not anyone else’s.

They can write their own.

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