Somedays I think the conversations will never end. Who would have thought I would ever be tired of talking?
Guess what? I am.
Apparently, I am feeling tired of listening, too.
I am having yet another conversation with my 14-year old.
Lord, she was one year old when I got sober. Is this still part of the conversation?
Obviously, it is. Even though I want to be beyond this point in our relationship—I am not.
Truth be told—we are not.
It gets me thinking about living amends, saying I’m sorry, not repeating old behaviors, working on being a better me each day.
Then it hits me. Her words cut so deeply because I still believe them. A Course in Miracles teaches me that a thought cannot exist outside of me. It’s my mind that is attached to her words, not her words attacking me. The 12+12 teaches me that “it is a spiritual axiom that anytime I am disturbed … there is something wrong me.” I wrestle with this too as I try and understand her pain.
Despite my efforts, I am still recovering from my alcoholic past. Maybe not the way I did in the early years, but clearly, I am still recovering. And—to the degree that I am recovering from being human, I must welcome this thought as well. After all, alcoholics aren’t the only ones that fumble with the parenting every now and again.
She’s truly and deeply hurt. No words can make her unhurt. There is no erasing a memory set in stone. Her dad and I got into a fight that landed me a trip to jail. Yes, it is etched in her memory. She finds it painful because she witnessed the fight and the cops and the handcuffs, and, and …
I find it painful because I made this little field trip to Orange County jail when I was almost four years clean and sober.
Ugghhh.
It’s one thing to be arrested for drunkenness, but quite another to end up in jail whilst being stone cold sober.
How many times do we need talk about it? How many times can I say I am sorry? How do I try and offer a new and improved way to make amends? I recognize that I have traumatized my family. I didn’t want to. I didn’t try to. This was a moment when my worst thinking got the best of me and I was swept away with rage.
Her wound is a wound that I cannot heal. This is one of those mom moments where I can sit quietly and refrain from showing outward discomfort. My mind is screaming shut up, just shut up, you’ve told me one thousand times I’ve hurt you, I get it. I get it!
Then she utters those words I loathe hearing, “You don’t get it.”
I think silently, Yes, I do.
Then I think a little while longer, No, I don’t!
This is what she wants me to comprehend: I was not inside her and have not been inside her to feel her pain. She doesn’t want to know that I get it. She wants me to know that I don’t get it.
I don’t get it!
It was a moment of amazement that I could utter those words and believe them. “I don’t get it.” I start to breathe again.
I’m starting to understand. She’s allowed to feel her pain. She’s allowed to feel it until it doesn’t hurt anymore.
She’s allowed to talk about it until she doesn’t want to talk anymore. Recovery means I’m here for the next conversation and every conversation that follows because that’s how much I love her.
This is what it means to say I’m sorry and really and truly mean it. If I could do that dreadful day again I would choose differently. If this is true, I must start by behaving differently now—right now. Then when the one-thousand and first conversation arrives. I will be better at holding the space for her.
And conversation 1001 will arrive!