Connecting the Dots & Taking Control

Ever have a duh! moment, when you connect dots you knew were there, you knew were related, and that had even occur ed to you were part of a pattern, but that you simply chose not to accept as the reality? I had one of those moments this weekend. It led to a panic/anxiety attack, but an attack with a twist. My body was doing what my body does when anxiety/panic attacks: difficulty catching my breath, which led to hyperventilation, shaking, crying, difficulty forming words. But my mind was working, my thoughts were cohesive, clear. I understood what was happening to me the entire time.

Ever since the bio-mother called I have been chewing and chewing on the problem of what to do about her, about her calls, about just how I wanted to end things with her. I considered writing a letter to "break up" with her once and for all, to explain why I haven't returned the last three calls and why we can't have a relationship. I considered having Joe call her posing as a stranger and telling her that "Ginger" doesn't live at this number. I also considered doing nothing, ignoring the call and keeping an eye on call ID. And during all this, I tried to justify in my mind why it was okay to not have a relationship with my mother. My birth mother. The woman who left me with my grandparents. The woman who has messed with my mind and emotions my entire life. And I didn't get the worst of it–Grandma, Grandpa and Sonny did.

The obstacle I kept putting in front of myself to thwart any definitive decision was compassion. Not forgiveness, not empathy (well not a lot anyway), but the need to understand why she is the way she is. This need got in the way of taking care of myself and by extension my family. I continually found myself making excuses for her behavior and undermining my own resolve.

Then I connected the dots, put aside compassion and took a long hard look at a visceral memory, an innate knowing about her abusive behavior that took place years and years ago. The compassion is gone, the forgiveness indefinitely forestalled, the empathy has gone by the wayside. And the panic attack is over. What is left is the residual depression that is a natural by-product of any contact I have with her. It probably won't last past tomorrow.

So what will I do? Probably have Joe call, as himself, and tell her not to call me anymore. It may work or may not. The one thing about my mother is that she is tenacious. The one parental skill that she possesses is the ability to keep coming back, to keep asserting her presence into my life. She did the same thing to her own parents. Even when they asked to her leave and not come back, she came back, called, visited. She once sent the police to my door after telling them that she hadn't heard from me in awhile and was concerned. Never mind that I had written and asked her to make contact by mail only. Never mind that we had purposely un-listed our home phone so that she couldn't call. She just kept at it, no pattern, no regularity, no consistency. So she may continue her inconsistencies. It doesn't matter anymore. I'm done.