Breaking Through the Noise
How I protect myself from my family’s victimization narrative
A text message came from my mother. “When you have a minute to talk without any interruptions let me know.”
A distant siren began to sound.
She must be mad at me. Reflexively, I started running through all the things I might have done wrong.
“I was planning on visiting with the kids tomorrow,” I responded, buying time to plan how I would fix whatever I’d broken.
“Don’t bother.”
And now the siren was wailing.
I’m not about the passive-aggressive life, and so — terrified as I was — I pressed “call” and held my phone to my ear, bracing for impact.
She didn’t disappoint.
“Your dad is in so much pain, he was almost in tears last night. You know, he’s been working his ass off to get moved, and your husband doesn’t even want to help. F*ck him. Every time you guys ask your dad for help, he’s more than willing, and every time we ask you guys for anything, you’re too busy. I told your dad we should get movers, and he didn’t want to spend the money because he’s out of work, so he’s been breaking his back…”
I tried interjecting, offering counterpoints to her mistaken assertions, but to no avail. Defending my husband was no use. The more she said, the clearer it was just how distorted her viewpoint was and how unwilling she was to consider that the story she was telling was just that — a story, made up in her head.
Unbeknownst to my husband and me, my mother had apparently been constructing a narrative in her head that we’re never there to help when they need us. And apparently, the night before, my husband provided the last piece of evidence she needed to cement her case.
My parents had asked for my husband’s help moving the last of their items from one house to another. When he’d texted my dad the night before, he’d asked what was left to move. My parents had somehow interpreted the question as, “I don’t want to help you move.”
And thus the tirade, directed predictably at me and taking my children as collateral damage.
My mother hung up the phone after yelling and crying at me for several minutes.
The hairs on my arms were standing at full attention; tears of rage and guilt fought their way out of my eyes.
I was angry she would have my kids suffer as a result of an adult situation; angry she’d created this story in the first place; angry she deemed it acceptable to verbally berate me for something in which I wasn’t even involved.
I thought about my dad, sitting in so much pain, out of work, on disability, worrying about money. And I wept.
Later in the day, my mother sent me a text message as if the earlier phone call had never happened.
Nope, I thought. Not allowed.
“I’m not feeling great about our conversation this morning,” I typed.
“Me either.”
I thought she was going to show some remorse, maybe offer an apology for the way she’d spoken to me or allow me a chance to rebut her false claims.
Instead, when I told her that much of what she’d said had been a result of misinterpretation and that my feelings were hurt, she responded that her feelings had been hurt for a long time and she’d just chosen not to say anything about it.
Damn, this woman is a master of passive aggression.
I’ve spent years keeping out of my mother’s cross hairs. During that time, I’ve grown up a lot emotionally.
I now value my right to protect myself. You don’t get to call and unload on me and then pretend nothing ever happened.
I now trust my story. I’ll listen if you have a different one, but only if you’ll grant me the same courtesy.
I still, however, find myself feeling the need to protect my parents. I feel responsible for their well-being and their feelings. And my mother knows it. That’s why she called me instead of my husband. That’s why she centered her story around my father, whom I will protect until the end of time, and his pain and financial concerns.
But, I must remember.
I didn’t hurt my father. I didn’t choose for him to go on working well beyond when he should have stopped.
I didn’t ask my mother to eat her feelings.
I didn’t misinterpret the situation and then construct a false narrative.
I didn’t make the choice for my parents to take on a more expensive mortgage and not hire movers.
I am not responsible for my parents’ decisions; they are.
And, remembering that, the guilt fades and I put down the phone, leaving my mother alone to clean up the mess she’s made.
This story was written in response to the Human Parts Weekend Writing Prompt:
“Don’t be fooled by your racing thoughts or trivia night wins: Your brain is lazy. Well-meaning, but lazy. It recycles stories to keep you safe — but these stories can trap us if we fail to examine them, hold them up to the light.
So pick a story, any story. Pick one you’ve told yourself a billion times, and unspool it. Challenge it. Ask yourself if this story encourages you to play it safe. If the answer is yes, let it go. Take one step closer to freedom.”