…and it breaks my heart. I feel like when you counter something I say it’s because you need to prove that you’re better than me, even when it’s something you don’t do at all, and I know well. Why would you throw your considerable wisdom at rock climbing? You have no idea what it’s about. You have no idea what it entails. But you’re going to inform me.
Sometimes I think we just don’t see eye to eye, and sometimes I think we both try deliberately not to.
Sobriety helps. The program gives us common ground, a lot, and has given me a wake-up call in terms of trying to be a better daughter to you. God knows I have put you through enough hell. Watching strangers die of this illness makes me feel wretched…I cannot imagine watching a family member, least of all my own child, doing it. That you didn’t have me hauled off to rehab or committed or otherwise institutionalized is such an resounding testament to your awesome motherliness.
And if you heard me say this, you’d roll your eyes. Accuse me of being dramatic, histrionic. Don’t you know by now that it’s part of who I am, and most people find it endearing, if at times a little silly?
It’s like we need a translator. And you come into my shop, wide eyed and open-faced, looking for me, and I am on the phone with tech support, and we miss each other again. After you leave I ask my boss how you are doing, because while I was on the phone he got to visit a bit with you. I’ll bet it was more enjoyable than the awkward few seconds of conversation we shared, the stiff-bodied hug.
You say I never visit and I say you never invite me. I ask you to come to meetings with me and you don’t feel up to it, don’t want to, it’s not your scene, you don’t feel well. I offer to take you for coffee and you say you can’t afford it. I offer to take you for coffee and you can’t afford it.
It breaks me and I feel like I deserve to be shattered, and it pisses me off and I feel righteously upset. And later, sad. Pretty sad.