Several years ago, I wrote a letter to our estranged son on this blog. I meant to add more to it shortly afterward, but for various reasons, it just never got written. Recently, I re-read it. When I wrote that letter, it was heartfelt, and while there are certain things about it that I think are still true, the tone of that letter comes across to me these days as a little… strident, perhaps? Wounded and lashing out? Definitely. Certain of my point of view? Yes. But I think maybe I’d been at that anger stage of the Kuhbler-Ross grief index when I wrote it. These days I’m leaning more into the acceptance stage of my grief.
If I’ve learned anything over these past few years, it’s that I am a work in progress. I am a tangled mess of yarn and God is unwinding me little by little. He’s helping me to undo my bad habits, and there are oh, so many bad habits! While I’ve always been a big believer in grace, I know now that I often haven’t shown that grace in a truly graceful way. Sometimes, my instinct is to show mercy when I actually shouldn’t, but more often, what I perceive as showing grace looks nothing like what it should. In other words, being estranged from my son has shined a light on how I shouldn’t be. Since I wrote that letter, I’ve been to therapy, and worked through some of lessons I’ve needed to learn with other people I love. I’ve figured out how to set my own boundaries. I’ve also learned to not cross the boundaries of others. I still have work to do on myself, but I’m committed to that knowledge and growth.
In knowing now what I didn’t when I wrote that letter, a lot of what I said then would look entirely different. Today, instead of saying what I said then, it would come out like this:
Dear ________,
I love you, but I don’t care.
I don’t care if your values are different than mine. I don’t care that we may not see eye-to-eye on politics or culture or religion. You may care, but the problems in this world are so much bigger than just you and me, that I don’t care that maybe you see black where I see white and vice versa. Instead, I care that we find the things we can agree on and try to find more common ground going forward. We couldn’t agree on whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie, but we both knew that we liked it. Maybe we could have a little of that?
I don’t care that you never told us why you left. Truthfully, not knowing why still bothers me, but in the whole scheme of things, I’m always going to have a column of “why?” longer than the column of answers for more things than I can count. Why do some people, good people, die way too early and others that seem cruel and selfish live long lives? Why is it easy for others to always say the right thing, calmly and rationally, and I can’t articulate what I mean until I’m lying in bed at midnight and then I think of what I should’ve said? Why do I have to be so diligent in order for beautiful flowers to thrive, but weeds sprout everywhere with no attention? Why does sleep elude me, even in the best of circumstances? In regard to you, “why” is just another word attached to my own misguided expectations.
This may sound callous, but I don’t care what you think about me and how I parented you. I can’t change one iota of it. Hindsight really is 20/20; one has to live through the consequences to fully take stock of the past. That being said, you’re entitled to your memories, thoughts and opinions. I sincerely doubt that by trying to tell you things from my perspective that I can somehow change what you believe to be true. However, I’m allowed to have my own experiences and memories. I’ll never be able to live your life and you haven’t lived mine, so I can’t expect you to understand what I was dealing with when I made decisions that affected you. Sometimes I made the right choices and unfortunately, sometimes I made the wrong ones, but there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it now; it’s pointless to try to get you to see what I was going though whenever your experience conflicted with mine. I’ve come to the point of recognizing we’ll always see things differently because that’s just what people do, because we’re all individuals with our own unique lives.
Honestly? I don’t care so much anymore that you hurt me; it’s everyone else that doesn’t understand why you walked away. Your brother and sister. Grandparents. Cousins. Aunts and uncles. Family friends. It’s so hard to see the incomprehension and hurt on their faces when they ask me what they “did.” Maybe at first they thought that a mom and a dad could hurt a child so badly that he or she would disown them, but then after months and years went by, they wondered… why them too? I understand that you went through some serious crap, but we all wanted to be there for you to help you get through it. And maybe you underestimate your value to them – your family needed you too.
I know it might be uncomfortable to talk… for you, for us too. But anything – everything! – can be dealt with if two people are willing to sit down and say what needs to be said. Everyone has a viewpoint, and neither person’s is 100% right or 100% wrong. I can’t help but wonder if you feel satisfied? Has it really simplified your life to be free of us? And are you really free of us? When you come across an article that talks about cross-country road trips or try to remember the taste of Skyline Chili, can you completely ignore those memories? And if you do, doesn’t that take away little pieces of your life? Take away from what made you… you?
In this culture of division, I have a few friends from high school or college that would rather be angry and right than have a conversation in order to bridge the divide. I don’t get it. All the “bad” emotions – anger, disillusion, hurt, etc… – need to find a way out and if that way isn’t a healthy one, it becomes untenable eventually. I understand; I don’t like sharing my own vulnerabilities, having hard conversations and setting boundaries, but it’s so much worse the longer it’s avoided. You don’t have to, but trust me on this one. I spent a lifetime tiptoeing around the conversations that needed to be had. I’ve learned that it’s better to get it out of your system and have freedom knowing that you did. I could teach a master class on avoidance and people pleasing, but the older I get, I’d rather let it out than stuff it in. I may not be able to say what I want to say as articulately as I want, but I’m learning to say what needs to be said. On the flip side, I’m also willing to listen. I’m actually better at listening than talking. Even though I’m better at saying my peace, when I listen, I’m learning to listen without the need to insert my side of the story. I’m not perfect at it, but I’m better. So… I don’t care if you have to say things you think I don’t want to hear; I actually do.
Above all, I want you to know how much I love you. Although I’ve learned to live with your absence, there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think of you, pray for you (even if you’d rather I didn’t) and hope that you’re healthy, happy and safe. I miss your unique perspective on any given subject. I miss your curiosity, your dry, wonderfully warped sense of humor, how you were always the most generous person in the family, giving away your things just because someone admired them. I miss the way you plow through books when they’re so interesting you just have to finish it as soon as possible. I miss watching movies with you. Watching you make a triple bubble with bubble gum! I miss the way you argued with such logic that it kept me unbalanced at times. Random conversations about nothing much. I miss so many things about you, but then I realize that all those things belonged to a different person than the you that you are today.
I would like to know that person someday.