Emancipating from my parents to get clarity

I hit “post” and the tears just flowed out of me. The guilt. The fear. The years of shame. I was sitting in the shade at an outdoor table at CROP and for the first time ever, I didn’t care what people thought of me. I let the tears come and I released all that pain. 

I started picking at my salad, realizing how hungry I was. Instead of trying to stop the tears and all the thoughts popping up in my mind with social media, music, videos, articles, audiobooks, or anything else on my phone, I just sat there and ate my food in complete silence. I didn’t even wipe my tears. People walking by glanced at me nervously but kept moving on. I didn’t care. I had been holding back these tears for long enough. They had to come out. 

After I was done with my meal, I couldn’t help myself. I had to peek online. Did I really do it? Did I really post about my trauma for the world to see? Was the post really live, with Mercury in retrograde and all? Seeing all the support, love, and acceptance cued another wave of tears. 

My life coach had been telling me that my next assignment was to write forgiveness letters to anyone I needed to. For weeks I had been doing this pretty amusing dance to avoid it, coming up with all kinds of reasons not to. I felt in my heart that it was time. I was ready to let go. 

I wiped my tears and collected my belongings. I felt the woods were calling. I had packed a blanket earlier that day in the hopes of gathering enough courage to stop long enough to start writing. And write I did. More than 20 pages in, I realized that, yes, I forgive my parents. I understand how their own trauma has created these situations and shaped who they are today. But I also say “no.” I’m so angry. They should have protected me. They should have believed me! Taken my side. Acknowledged my trauma. I trusted them completely and they failed me. I’m still that little girl inside and not having been believed over and over again put such deep scars in my soul. 

I could see all the amazing things that my parents had done for us on the surface, all the exceptionally generous financial support over the years, the help and all the trips, but I realized that I hadn’t been authentic with myself. Was the emotional price tag too high? Were we communicating as equals? Were there really no strings attached? Who was I without them? Who am I really?

Something needed to shift. I needed a break to heal myself. To stand on my own two feet, and as a 45-year-old, finally emancipate myself from my parents. I had to take a step back to observe this codependent and enmeshed relationship that I now realized we had. Who was leading who? Was it the blind leading the blind? Me craving their unconditional maternal and paternal love and approval and them being unable to say the things I so desperately needed to hear? Maybe they expected all that from me? All of us incapable to give and receive. Coming from broken hearts, hiding behind countless layers of silence, shame, and disconnection. 

My parents are wonderful people. Very generous, driven, strong, and involved, they thrived during their careers and I’m very proud of their accomplishments. But maybe they weren’t perfect. Gasp! Could that be true? Had I expected too much of them as parents? Maybe they didn’t know how to be emotionally available to the degree I needed?

See, out of the blue they can say the most hurtful things. In the middle of a pleasant and calm conversation something suddenly shifts and the words start to feel like sharp daggers in the little hurt 7-year-old girl inside of me. The little girl who is still yearning for that hug, support, and complete unconditional love that she so desperately needs. But maybe they too are coming from their own inner wounded child? 

When I first told my parents about what had happened with my grandfather, years ago, my dad didn’t know how to handle it. He started crying and then said how disappointed he was because my husband does most of the household work at our house… I got so confused, what was he talking about? Had he not heard what I said? Didn’t I do enough at home? Was that what we were talking about? Really? This was not the response I had anticipated. Was there something wrong with me after all? I started questioning my sanity. My mom didn’t help by being in total denial and saying that “There’s no way, we protected you from that!” 

Later I tried to tell him about another incident, back when I had the opportunity to go up in a construction crane at a site he oversaw. I had been so excited. I was 12. When me and the man in-charge of the crane got to the top, he asked me to sit on his lap and then proceeded to touch me inappropriately. I tried to protect myself from the assault but unable to flee other than by jumping, I had no other choice but to surrender and put my life in his disgusting hands. I’ve since realized that this is where my extreme fear of heights comes from, not trusting authority and always thinking that people have ulterior motives. My dad asked me why I hadn’t told him, and I said “Oh, I told you, Dad. You just said that so-and-so would never do such a thing and to stop talking like that.” He later said that he thought most of the #metoo stories were made up. Was he right? I wasn’t sure what to believe anymore. 

Another memory that bubbled up as I was writing in the woods, was right after I had my oldest daughter. Best day of my life, but also the scariest. Over 48 hours of labor. 6 hours straight of pushing, everything going wrong. Almost bleeding out because of an internal tear, given a shot so I passed out right after I told my husband. “Whatever you do, follow that baby!” Waking up later in an empty room, after having been a part of what felt like an especially action-packed episode of the ER, the silence felt tangible. Faintly saying “Hello, anyone there?” pretty certain it had all been a dream. The nurse popped her head around the corner and put my mind at ease. Not long after that I got to hold my beautiful baby girl in my arms for the first time. 

During labor my parents had managed to lock themselves out of our house and had called us to fix it. That seemed odd. They knew I was in labor. But later when asked about it just said, “Who else were we supposed to call?” Well, maybe a locksmith, or any number of my husband’s family and friends who all lived near by? But now I wasn’t certain anymore. Maybe calling us had been a normal thing to do… They also kept calling during labor to see how far along I was, and I felt stressed and inadequate when they didn’t seem happy with the progress. 

In pictures afterwards I have seen that my parents went up to the hospital at some point, even though I asked them not to, and that they got to see my daughter before I did. They also came in to see me. I was laying in bed with a wet wash cloth over my forehead, euphorically happy and exhausted, hooked up to all kinds of machines that I had never seen before. I faintly said, “It will be easier next time!” My parents both hugged me and I thought, “Oh yes, I did good! They do love me!”

The next morning after my sweet girl was born my parents came back to visit. I had managed to get out of bed to move around a little, as encouraged by my doctor. I was proud of myself for making the effort. I was on a mission. A baby of my own. I was going to do everything for her. She was going to feel loved and supported every moment of every day. 

I was unable to go to the bathroom still and was clenching the urine drainage bag in one hand and trying to make my way back to the comfort of the bed, hoping my legs would hold me, as my parents walked into the room. I was not in that much pain thanks to the medication but felt like what I imagine someone feels like after being hit by a bus. Sore, swollen, and in shock. Grateful to be alive. My mom looked at me from head to toe and said, “I thought you already had the baby. When I had you, I left in my pre-maternity jeans”. My heart sank. I don’t even remember what I said. The dagger felt so familiar. At the same time, I again scolded myself for having fallen for it. “Of course they don’t love you, silly. This wasn’t good enough either.”

See, I don’t think my parents say or do these things to hurt me on purpose. They’re just doing the best they can. Probably repeating things told to them. When years later I mentioned this to my mom she was confused at first. “Well, I didn’t mean anything by it.“ And I believe her. But it doesn’t take away the hurt. She has said similarly inappropriate things about my weight over the years. She told my boss in Greece that “Kristine’s at her America weight now, she’s usually not this fat.” Or my dad’s first comment after not having seen me for the 8 months that I had spent as an 18-year-old exchange student in upstate New York and going through a really tough time. “You’re fat!” He didn’t even say hi first. Or my grandfather later on saying that “I don’t know which one is which, Kristine or the bus.” My parents laughing and nodding. “Don’t be so sensitive!” was a sentence I heard over and over through my childhood. Had they been told the same thing?

The comments are not always about my weight, but they usually come out of nowhere when I least expect them and don’t have my guard up. They can turn an otherwise fun-filled day into hell just like that and waiting for the next unexpected stab would suck the joy out of the present moment. The words jab straight through to my wounded heart. Reaffirming over and over again that I am not enough. 

Years later they came to see us here in Sarasota. They would visit us a lot and that felt like a good thing and something I should be grateful for. However, I would always get so nervous before they came to visit. Stress so much that I would make myself physically ill. I would often get cold sores and pains in my body. 

This particular time both my 3-year-old daughter and I had gotten the stomach flu. We were supposed to meet for lunch, but I had called them and said we had to reschedule because we were sick. They decided to walk from downtown to see us anyway. 5 minutes before they were supposed to arrive, I had thrown up and then my daughter threw up all over me. I quickly ran into the shower to try to get cleaned up. When my parents came they told me how hot they were and how inconvenient it was of us to get sick when they had traveled so far to see us. They also commented negatively on the state of my home, which I of course had been unable to keep perfect. No empathy or sympathy in sight. No, “How are you? I’m so sorry you’re not feeling well. How can we support you?” Again, I felt that familiar tug. “See silly, they don’t love you. You’re not good enough. Can’t even stay healthy when they come.” Where did their lack of self-awareness and empathy come from?

After that I scheduled an appointment with a therapist for me and my parents. Maybe that would do it? Someone that could help mediate between us, help us communicate. It was uncomfortable but I felt like I had to do something. It felt like a step in the right direction, since I had been working with therapists on and off since I was 16. Trying to understand what was wrong with me. If they could only see my point of view, they would certainly change and we’d live happily ever after. Oh, how naive I was. I still am. So desperate to find a solution. Maybe they would even continue the therapy once they were back in Sweden? Heal themselves, so I could heal? A girl could dream. I was still convinced that I could change them. Still refusing to let go of the cords binding us and determined to try to control and fix the situation. 

I remember at some point driving in my car after processing yet another one of my mother’s insensitive comments and just screaming. Screaming out all that frustration. All that sadness. All that hurt. Feeling so trapped. It came out as a primal roar. My oldest daughter was in the car and to this day I feel so bad about that. I told her I was sorry and that “Mom is just not feeling so good right now.” 

I have set boundaries over the years. Like they can’t stay in our house when they come to visit after a particularly loud and traumatic argument between me and my dad – over toast, of all things – on my oldest daughter’s birthday. He stomped his foot and said he was most certainly not changing his behaviors. He was 63 1/2 years old! He called me names and told my mom that they would leave immediately and all of this in front of my children. That behavior was unacceptable to me. You do not get to ruin my baby’s birthday!!! When it came to my children, I was suddenly able to stand up for myself. 

As I’m typing this, I’m also healing and recognizing patterns in my own behavior that has bled through. I just realized that I have called my own children those same names like my father did that day. I have called my own kids ungrateful spoiled brats. I cringe as this realization hits home. I too have acted like a child when questioned and when my children won’t do what I tell them or I don’t feel like they respect my opinion. I have exploded with rage when I feel stressed, hungry, tired, unappreciated, or misunderstood. We’re all children parenting children at one point or another until we bring these patterns up to the surface to be healed. 

I can also see my patterns when it comes to alcohol reflected in my parents. We’re all just holding up mirrors to each other’s behaviors, right? Monkey see, monkey do. 

Another boundary I drew at one point was to only see them between 10 am and 4 pm and then take days off in between to try and refill my energy cup. Dinner was taboo because that would lead to wine, and then cruel comments or inappropriate behavior would surface and it would end in tears. For me. Never to be talked about the next day or mentioned ever again. 

In the silence, the doubt and shame grew uncontrollably. Was it just me? It all seemed so odd, but these were my parents, certainly they must be right. I had them high up on a pedestal and I craved their love and attention more than anything. I too would never drink before 4 pm, and if my parents didn’t see their behavior as a problem, how could mine be? My stomach turns when I think about the disappointment on my own children’s faces when I would have to spend yet another Sunday in bed due to a “headache.” No explanation, mom just wasn’t feeling well.

Even with all these boundaries set, I would always be completely exhausted after they left. All my energy would be drained. It would take me about 2 weeks to recover. And weeks before they would come, I would be a nervous wreck. Snapping at my poor husband and children. Years ago, before a visit from my parents in Chicago, my husband told me that we should tell them that they couldn’t come anymore. He said “It’s just too hard on you”. I thought he was out of his mind. “People don’t do that. They’re my parents for crying out loud. And by the way, don’t tell me what to do!!!”

Sitting in the woods and writing these forgiveness letters I realized that even though I love and forgive them and I can understand where they’re coming from, I’ve had enough. I’m done. I need a break to heal and fall in love with myself completely. I will work with my support system including my therapist and life coach to really believe that I am enough. I am loved. I matter. I finally realized that I can’t change my parents, but I can change myself. The codependency patterns are becoming increasingly clear to me. We’re at a fork in the road now and I’m ready to make a different choice this time. 

I am mourning the fact that I can’t get the love and support from my parents that I so desperately needed as a child. But I have to let myself grow up. Grow apart from them. We can’t stay as one dysfunctional unit anymore. Something has to give. Maybe by healing me, I can heal us. But the focus needs to be with me. All I can do is lead by example and leave the rest to the Universe. I surrender control. 

I believe that we choose our parents and l’m starting to understand my choices. Maybe my lesson in this lifetime is that love doesn’t come from the outside, it’s been inside of us all along. 

Somehow I’m an adult now. I have children of my own. I’ve been an adult for quite some time I guess. But I still feel like a little girl most days, even though time passed and my body kept aging as reflected in the mirror each morning when I brush my teeth and wonder where the years went. But as I was typing the message to my parents, asking for a break and a period of no contact, I felt like for the first time I fully stepped into my adult self. I also asked them to cancel their next trip to see us. I had already started to worry about it, even though it was not scheduled until February of next year. 

The last time I saw my parents 2 years ago, pre-Covid, right after a dear friend of mine had tragically passed away way too soon, and my mother was recovering from surgery, my dad said at lunch one day, totally out of the blue, that he thought my youngest daughter was fat. My mom quickly hushed him and said “Don’t talk like that, now we might have to end up back in therapy. And we don’t want that.” 

I’ll be darned if they hurt my children with their fear, insecurities, and insensitive comments. Mama bear is coming out!! I’m taking a stand. This time also for myself. Being my own Mama bear. I’m pulling up the drawbridge for a while like Glennon Doyle talks about in Untamed. Only love, kindness, and compassion are allowed on our little island. I don’t know what’s next, but I can already feel the healing embracing me and I believe in my heart that this is the next best step. I have to learn to observe and not absorb. I believe that words can lose their jagged edges if my complete self-worth and world view is not wrapped up in them. By having love and trust in myself, I’m reclaiming my sanity. My power. My life. I’m taking ownership in how my own actions affect my children. I love them too much to not stop this generational suffering. Hopefully some day soon I’ll be able to extend that bridge again. Completely rooted in my adult self. 

When I came home that evening I knew I had to share my story with my 12-year old daughter. I sat next to her as she read through what I had written. She turned to me and asked “So, was it a dream, Mom?” With tears streaming down my face once more, I told her, “No, it really happened and it was awful. It has affected my whole life.” We talked for a long time. She told me she was proud of me and that the suffering could end now. Wise beyond her years. We hugged. I whispered, that I was so sorry that she had such a broken mom and that I was doing everything in my power to heal. She looked at me and said “That’s okay, I think that’s why I picked you.” 

Beautiful images by my talented friend Kollene Carlsson from Blonde Cow Photography. Thank you, love you!

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