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We were seated closely on a small, plush loveseat in the therapist’s office, which was devoid of windows. The soft glow from table lamps created a warm atmosphere, contrasting with the harsh overhead fluorescents. Bookshelves filled with volumes lined the wall opposite us, and her desk stood against another. Her well-worn armchair was positioned near the loveseat, creating an inviting space. Laura’s demeanor was both nurturing and accepting, and her genuine care for Ethan helped soothe the turmoil within me.
I had expected challenging therapy sessions and was ready for them. Genuine healing often comes with discomfort, and I was eager to confront the pain if it meant achieving healing and restoration for both of us in the future. Laura had a talent for asking probing questions that delved deeply yet still respected our experiences.
Though we had only met for a few sessions and exchanged several emails, she grasped the complexity of our family dynamic, and for the first time, I felt acknowledged. My son’s residential treatment for his ongoing mental health struggles had already shown promise. As Laura settled back in her chair, she gently asked if I realized how my frustration had manifested as resentment towards Ethan.
I felt him shift slightly, and the familiar lump formed in my throat. I nodded, tears gathering in my eyes. I had uttered that harsh word before in safe spaces, among friends who cared for both me and Ethan, feeling a release tinged with both shame and relief. Yet, I had never heard another mother admit such feelings about her child; still, I couldn’t ignore the painful truth that resentment had taken root within me.
For a split second, I considered denying it, wanting to protect his heart from additional hurt. What mother wants her child to know she resents him? But I was there to confront the reality of our relationship, not to hide behind an idealized vision of what I had hoped for.
I wanted to clarify my feelings, to explain that my resentment wasn’t directed at him as a person. I wanted to rise and tell him that it was the illness, the ‘disorder,’ the life circumstances that had wounded us all. Inside, I was desperate to reassure him that my toxic resentment wasn’t aimed at his essence, his personality, or his humanity.
Yet, I remained silent. In that moment of panic, I understood that qualifying my feelings would only diminish his. To ask him to comprehend my reasoning for the hurt he sensed would invalidate his experience. I allowed the painful silence to linger, feeling the weight of my own failings and pain, terrified to look at him and see hurt reflected in his beautiful eyes. Shame crept into my thoughts, and the broken mother within me longed to give it power, believing that accepting shame might somehow make amends for the hurt I had inflicted on my teenage son.
He didn’t respond. I held my breath, bracing for anger or withdrawal, preparing for him to bitterly say, “I knew it.” But no words came. His body relaxed. The moment was enormous and complex, awful yet simple, unremarkable yet significant.
He had already known. He had felt my frustration over the years when I lashed out at him in anger and disdain. He had sensed it when my body turned away from him as he excitedly shared his latest interests, while I cringed at the thought of another unfulfilled desire leading to a meltdown.
As I sat beside him, the silence stretched on, feeling like an eternity. I noticed his physical tension ease as I nodded in shame, and my intuition told me he was grateful for my honesty. My admission of this painful, unwanted feeling had restored a bit of his dignity and confidence, reassuring him that he hadn’t been imagining things.
So, I remained there, my hands clasped tightly in my lap, facing forward as I collected myself. I willed my tears to stop, respecting him in the moment. A few tears slipped down my heated cheeks, but I dared not brush them away, not wanting to disrupt the energy in the room. I wouldn’t let my desperate sobs overshadow the progress we had made in our session.
My gaze drifted to the bookshelf, watching the titles about mental illness blend into a colorful blur of mocking self-help. I heard him take a deep breath and stretch his legs in preparation to stand, signaling the end of our session. Still, I remained seated, overwhelmed with swirling emotions; anger at the illness that had damaged our bond, frustration at myself for not being more resilient, grief over the reality of returning home without him yet again, and an overwhelming desire to pull him close and erase every hurt he had endured.
But our session had concluded. It was time for him to return to his unit and for me to drive home. I turned to him, and he embraced me. “I love you, Mom,” he said.
This familiar phrase reminded me that a hurt relationship doesn’t equate to a dead one, and I knew he understood my love for him in return. “I love you too, buddy,” I whispered into his neck before stepping back to straighten my clothes, wipe my face, and follow the therapist through the maze of sterile corridors and heavy locked doors.
As we walked in silence, I recognized the damage my resentment had already caused. In that moment, the most valuable gift I could give him was the acknowledgment of my hurtful feelings; and in doing so, I felt a shift. We were beginning to move towards healing.