January Prompt

How Many Chances Are Too Many?

Should we cut toxic people from our lives?

It happened again. No matter how many times I’ve told myself that I was done and this was the last time, it never is. I’ve cut her out of my life so many times just to be sucked back in.

Guilt is a powerful emotion.

I want to punch anyone who’s ever said she’s still your mother to me and try me; I probably will start doing that soon, so let’s do everyone a favor and stop telling other people how to feel about their families.

It’s impossible to sit here and try to act like anyone knows how someone else feels about what they went through. As Naval says, “Life is a single-player game,” so it makes no sense to tell someone else what they should do with their life or, more importantly, how they should feel about anything.

I hate Mother’s Day. It makes me feel so disingenuous. How can I honestly give a card professing how much I love this person and shower them with the most beautiful bouquet of flowers when all they’ve done is treat me like shit? I can’t, and I don’t.

Can we all agree to stop with the X and Facebook posts telling people to call their mother on Mother’s Day?

So you have a great mother. Congratulations, I’m happy for you. Be grateful because not everyone else does, so stop telling other people what to do.

Newsflash — she’s still your mother and is not some get-out-of-jail-free card or some built-in excuse to treat your kids poorly. Parent or not, you need to earn my respect and love, and I should have to earn yours.

So, it made me wonder, how many chances are too many chances to give someone before it’s time to cut them out of our lives?

Let’s start with a recent interaction with my mom.

My phone rang on day 8 of fighting COVID-19 for the second time in six months, which caused me to miss Christmas and New Year's. I spent the best time of the year isolated from everyone.

I had a non-stop headache, body aches, sore throat, and congestion for 8 straight days, so you could imagine my mood.

I glanced over and saw that it was my mom calling. She was the last person I wanted to talk to. She normally only calls when she wants something or to lecture me on what I “should” be doing.

Every time I see her caller ID, I immediately have an internal battle on whether I’m going to answer, but I always regrettably do, even though I know the conversation will end poorly. There’s that stupid guilt emotion that flows through me, and I’ve always held out a slither of hope that this call may be the one where she acts like a mom.

As if I were Nostradamus himself, I already knew how the conversation would go, but I answered anyway. She asked how I was feeling, and when I explained that my symptoms had worsened, she instantly morphed into Dr. Fauci and told me I shouldn’t have waited so long to get treatment, that I needed to get on Paxlovid right away, and how Paxlovid worked for her.

I wasn’t looking for a doctor or medical advice from a Fox News homemaker; I was looking for some damn empathy from my mom. Apparently, that’s been too much of an ask for the past forty-one years of my life.

Why couldn’t she be normal like my other family members who said things like:

“Hopefully, you’re on the upswing.”

“Rest up and feel better!”

“Sorry to hear that, buddy. Keep taking it easy, and keep you in my prayers.”

Not a single other family member told me what I should do with “my” health decisions, but that’s always been too much to ask from her.

Her conversations only serve to trigger me into disappointment and anger.

I knew I should be present and let it go, but I was unable to control my emotions, so I snapped back and yelled at her for telling me what to do. I screamed that I didn’t ask for or want her “medical advice” and that I simply wanted an empathic mom who listened and was there for me.

Well, I’ve seen this movie before. Instead of her seeing and understanding my point of view, the crocodile tears started flowing. Of course, the conversation had to become about her and how I offended her, so what happened next was that I left the conversation mad and felt guilty for upsetting her. The pattern and cycle will continue until the next time.

I walked into the other room where my wife was; I replayed the conversation to her and told her that I was done with my mom.

This was it.

The truth is, I’m not done with my mom, and I never will be.

How many chances are too many?

That’s a very complex question and varies on an individual basis. Everyone’s trauma is so nuanced and varies in type and intensity.

While I’ve had a difficult relationship with a pathological narcissistic mother who lacked any semblance of empathy, I would say my trauma isn’t as severe as someone who went through physical or sexual abuse.

I think the nature of abuse and individual circumstances dictate how many chances are too many.

Two things that I’ve realized in my situation are this:

1. My mom and dad are a package deal. If I want a relationship with my dad, then I have to accept being around my mom. With that being said, there are boundaries that I’m trying to put into place to ensure my own mental health is protected. She’ll never really “know” me. Honestly, I don’t think she wants to anyway.
2. I know I’ve used this Eckart Tolle quote before, but it’s true and something that I need to lean into more.

“The primary cause of unhappiness is never the situation but your thoughts about it.” — Eckhart Tolle

If I’m going to allow my mom to be a part of my life, I need to accept her for who she is and not what I expect her to be. The responsibility of how I react and respond to her is mine. I need to own that.

If I bring awareness to each interaction with her and do not give her the power to control my emotions, then there wouldn’t need to be the question of how many chances are too many, right?

This article was inspired by 𝓓𝓲𝓪𝓷𝓪 𝓒 prompt “How many chances is too many?”