Mr. P has this annoying habit of seldom asking me about my life. Yesterday, I had some serious family drama come to a head in a courtroom of all places. He had his own deadlines to meet (yawn) so I couldn't talk to him about it. As stressed as I was about it, I noticed my mind wondering to where he actually was last night. Was he really with Alex from work? It was the first night we'd spent apart in a week. Why is it that I'm convinced the first "free" night he has, he's off with some other woman? Sure, part of it is that he'd admitted to doing so in the past and he'd already hidden his attraction to/flirtations with two other women (one of whom I've yet to meet); part of it is undoubtedly my own history of less-than-faithfulness; another part of it is that I'm a bit insecure and have never had the proper ego.

But a part of it is also that I'm a deeply flawed human being. I come from a home that disintegrated during my formative years and have two parents who essentially created, with their own four hands, a child who could never feel secure. My father was absent and when he was present, he was angry, overworked, and held down by life. My mother was irritating, passive-aggressive and is the queen of grudge holding. So I was trapped: I could never do anything wrong, because I never knew if that would be the time my father would fly off the handle and fly off into a rage, or if it would be the time my mom would develop a serious, long-term grudge and then passive-aggressively not talk to me for a few days or weeks. The pressure to be perfect was enormous, but not enough to overcome my human inability to be so.

I lost my father two years ago. It was a short and painful battle, one I'm ultimately happy I was there for, but one I didn't have the courage or the mental wherewithal to glean valuable lessons from the way I would’ve liked to. In the end, the experience left me emotionally depleted and feeling raw, as if I didn’t know a good God-damned thing about life after all, even after 30-years of it.

My mother on the other hand, is still very much alive. Despite her smoking habit, she’ll probably out live all of us, because whatever stress she has to bear is passed on to those around her. If stress kills, it will kill everyone else but her.

I don’t say this to be crude. I actually say it because I need to say it. The courtroom drama that began to play itself out yesterday left me with a bitter taste in my mouth. I am loathe to go into detail about my family, about whom I am excessively ashamed and embarrassed of, online. Suffice it to say, I was quite angry and still am with my mother over it. However, Mr. P reminded me that I might want to consider empathizing with her. It’s funny, I’d already decided I could not feel empathy for her as a victim.

The real reason I could not feel empathy for her isn’t because she isn’t legally the victim—she is. And the person who harmed her is being charged with a first degree misdemeanor, carrying with it a maximum penalty of 6 months in jail. But the reason is that I could not feel empathy for her because that means I also cannot express how I really feel about her. And how I really feel about her is that her relentlessly selfish behavior put her at risk for victimhood, a role she now relishes. Her complete and absolute refusal to listen to what others say and instead believe whatever she wants, her rejection of anyone else’s opinion or perspective (particularly while formulating her own) as irrelevant, makes it impossible, impossible to communicate with her. Her actions, while lacking in any real motive, have destroyed a part of my family. Now…my family has seen a lot of shit in its time. But that doesn’t mean I’m happy to do the repair work to put it back together. And that is my role. That is why I’m so angry. My role has been handed to me: I’m the peacekeeper, the peacemaker, the peacemaintainer. When my mother refused to speak to my father for 5-years after their divorce, it was me who decided to contact him. When he died, my mother and him were very good friends. That was due in no small part to my efforts as a young diplomat. It’s why I’m so good at my job today, and why when I do fight dirty, no one ever knows.

So yesterday I let her have it. I whipped out my best skills, my best arguments, and I let her have it. I expressed my disappointment and embarrassment. I expressed it! I let it out! And it felt terrible and awful and useless. And yet it also felt right. On any other day, to do this would’ve appeared psychotic. But my mother finally gave me a good reason to be her daughter in a more full way than she has before.
 
The drama will continue, but for now I know that as long as I can listen to others and revisit my relationships with the people who matter to me, the drama won’t matter. It won’t matter, because I have decided not to let it run my life anymore.