A journey to discover intimacy

A journey to discover intimacy

The story began with yarn. literally. My mom is a knitter. She was sitting on the sofa, lamenting her first miserable attempt at knitting as her toes poked the many holes in the blanket draped over her. She had crocheted for many years before, and decided to teach herself to knit. This blanket was the end result of a multi-month journey of tying loops. In contrast to her comfort zone of making crochet knots.

Her work was an impeccable knot. From the oversized beanie hats to the delicate doilies, they were truly artisanal. But in the connected episodes, she had a lot to learn. I decided that the blanket, after spending ten years decorating our sofa, would be retired. It didn't keep you warm anyway. But we had a habit as a family of keeping the things in our lives that didn't keep you warm...

She wanted to throw the blanket away. It wasn't worth saving. An apt metaphor for her preferred way of solving problems. She had done the same thing before when she left the house she shared with my parents and sister. The relationship, like the blanket, had many holes in it. I woke up one morning to find her gone. No note, no conversation, just gone. I was six years old. You just kicked us out.

We were left with the tattered fabric of our family, and I was ill-equipped to tie up the loose ends. Even today, thirty years later, I still search for them. Except now, my mom and I have been back in the same house for a while, and I find myself trying to keep warm again.

I didn't want to throw away the blanket. I suggested simply untangling the threads and reusing them for something new. But it was only a simple matter. It was double and full of knots. They may have been good at making them, but getting rid of them was another matter. She often lacked patience. She will become defensive if you try to help.

But it was never about the strings, and it all started to unravel when I chose to call her because of her willingness to defend, even in the absence of a willing enemy. You were her daughter, after all, not an opponent. But it doesn't matter. After years of living in a defenseless marriage, she overcorrected. The pendulum swung the other way when my stepfather died. The narcissist may have left the building, but he still lives in her mind, rent-free.

My mother began to see almost every interaction I had with her as a threat to her self-worth, abilities, and sense of self. And all I was trying to do was love her.

It was like I was six years old again, searching for my mother, and she was nowhere in sight. It was there, but it didn't warm me.

It was a painful realization to learn that it was because she didn't know how. She couldn't keep herself warm. There were a lot of holes. Like her blanket, she had to unravel it to make something new.

But she will have to do this work herself. Part of growing up is seeing your parents as human beings, perfect in their flaws. It's not your job to fix them, or anyone, for that matter. This can be difficult for someone who desperately wants to see their parents happy again.

Meanwhile, I learned how to keep myself warm. I'm still trying to tie in loose ends, but I've learned to do so with grace and compassion. For myself, and my mother. In the end, our breakup was the beginning of something new.