There is a place in which my mother and I cannot coexist. It resembles a circle. The space inside that circle is mine, I fill it up. And when she steps outside of her boundary, she enters my circle causing parts of me to spill out. I had to learn that I am whole all by myself, and am still learning that is sufficient.
When I am sick, either emotionally or physically, she knows I need her. She has a need, conscious or not, to keep me sick. It is more important to her that I stay close than stay healthy.
I have for the first time in my 37 years of life distanced myself both in physical space and time, to actually see the line I cannot cross again. Before, I was either ambiguous with my decision to draw the line, or when I did draw it, adamantly even, I went right back.
As my mind has cleared, so has that line. The desire for pills has left me, which she so conveniently supplied me with, as has the need to remain sick for my mother.
My mother possesses a special radar for my moods. She can hone in on my depression like a pigeon on bread crumbs at the park. I could always sense her tone of satisfaction knowing she could rest easy because I was all hers as long as I was ‘not well.’
Part of me felt secure when I ran to her arms for comfort, for the attention I craved. But I always knew it was a toxic web to enter.
I like my circle.
It belongs to me.
I can breathe here.