September 4, 2011 § Leave a comment
About twelve years ago my mother has done something unforgivable which made me walk out of the house and stop talking to her. Not out of vindictiveness — any desire to hurt her — but simply because I could not imagine how I could talk to her without her first making a profuse apology, admitting her guilt, and promising — no, not promising — swearing on a stack of Bibles — never to repeat it.
As it happened, she did make several attempts to get in touch, but always pretended that nothing has happened, that she has done no wrong. These attempts of course fell flat — like they had to. (A 35 year old adult does not need his mother enough to compromise his dignity and self-respect. 55-year old mothers do not always understand that).
While I waited for her to do the right thing, I often suffered from deep hurt — the memory of what she had done would come back to me suddenly and stay with me for days, making me feel profoundly unhappy.
This went on for years.
And then, suddenly, it all changed: suddenly, I stopped caring. The past really and truly became the past. Suddenly, it made no difference what my mother thought, or what she had done. I was strangely content in the feeling that I was quite alright if I never saw my mother alive again. Indeed, the very notion of seeing her again became uninteresting: I thought of the sort of conversations I would have to have with her if we met and the whole idea seemed so unappealing that I resolved that I would not see her again no matter what she said or what happened. Not because I wanted to punish her but because — well, I simply had no interest in seeing her.
This change happened very suddenly. I can tell very precisely when it took place but I cannot say what caused it — except perhaps that, somehow, the wound had closed. Wounds do close slowly, gradually, but nevertheless there is one very definite moment at which they stop bleeding. Well, it was like that: the wound just stopped bleeding.