Mad.

So much mad.

Every version of me, from neglected child me to abused teen me to gaslit young adult me to present-day wide awake me, are all white-hot mad. The kind of mad that takes over your whole being, every level of consciousness. It sails past the spitting and kicking and punching levels and settles into a pseudo-calm, almost detached sort of fury.

Why, you ask? My space has been invaded again. (Hence the title of this post. Space Invaders was a fun video game from the late 70s but it isn’t actually related to what I’m talking about today.)

My mother called my mother-in-law, who accidentally picked up the phone because she hadn’t realized at first who it was. It’s been quite some time since she’s tried this avenue of communication; I thought my mother-in-law had blocked her, but apparently not (that has since been rectified). The message at hand was a really nice bit of dramatics about how she’s had heart surgery, she’s been in and out of the hospital from the nursing home where she was recovering but got infections, and how much she wants to get back into my good graces before she dies.

Honestly, I’m more infuriated that she crossed my boundaries again than I am upset about her health, which I’ve known for some time isn’t good and which is hardly surprising when she’s been a heavy smoker for sixty friggin’ years. (If this is where you feel inclined to tell me I should consider reconnecting with my mother before she’s gone because if I don’t I’ll regret it — this is not the blog for you.)

I feel guilty that my in-laws had to deal with this and annoyed that she tried her manipulative ploy for sympathy bullshit again and just fucking white-hot mad that she won’t stop invading my space. (If you’re the type of person who’s offended by cursing — again, this may not be the blog for you.)

Years ago, when the boundaries I established between my mother and I were brand new and I didn’t know for sure yet if they’d be iron-clad, there were many days where I wondered if I was doing the right thing. I wondered if this was really necessary, cutting off contact; I wondered if it made me a bad person, a bad daughter. I wondered if my mother would come to accept that I had terms and conditions for our relationship moving forward, if she still wanted one.

Spoiler alert: I was doing the right thing. It was necessary. She would not, did not, does not accept my terms and conditions for a relationship. And it does not make me a bad person or a bad daughter. (If you’re in any sort of position like I was/am, I hope you find my words encouraging! Trust your instincts. Listen to your body and your heart. You’re a good person and you’re going to be okay.)

A good mother would not have brought her daughter into a situation where she would suffer through sexual abuse so traumatic she literally can’t bring up recollections of it in her mind or find any words to describe or discuss it to her therapist; it’s like there’s a big impenetrable black box around that part of my memory. And — even if that sort of thing were to happen in what otherwise was a good situation (which it wasn’t), a good mother would have known about it, or been supportive once she learned about it. My mother only ever looked out for herself; not only does she not know, she’s made it clear to me whenever I’ve tried bringing up other abuse I’ve experienced that she doesn’t want to know. So fine; she can stay in the dark about it all, and she can stay there by herself. She’s self-serving, and I’m done catering.

There. I said it. (Well, I wrote it. I did say it out loud to my therapist this morning though, and that felt big too. Scary. But empowering.)

White-hot anger makes me honest. And I’m done holding onto the truth and burying it to save her face. My stepfather is dead, gone where none of this honesty can hurt him. My mother will never accept the honest truth and her role in it anyway, so she won’t really allow herself to be hurt by it either. The only one who gets hurt is me, by keeping it in. She wants good graces? There are none left. Those books of falsehood and denial are burning, the illusions of love going up in smoke, charring at the bottom of the barrel where they belong.

(As a self-proclaimed bibliophile whose book collection is slowly overtaking my entire house, I hope it speaks to how devastatingly serious I am about this matter, that I’m choosing book burning as a metaphor and cover image for it.)

So that’s over. I’m done with letting her disturb my hard won peace and invade my fucking space. More brutal honesty is likely on the way. I’m taking my mind and my body and my soul back, and she gets none of it.