Saying Goodbye

December 12, 2023

I want to tell you about the most painful part of “goodbye”. It’s not the anger, the frustration, or the confusion. It’s not the disbelief that they’d do whatever they’d done. It’s not the evil that hurts, really. It’s the good. It’s the pieces of them that showed you what they could have been. What they will never be, no matter what you do. No matter how good, loving, or resilient you are, they can never be the people you need them to be.

And that’s what hurts the most.

I’ve had to relearn this lesson recently, and it hurts. It’s the deepest sort of pain; loss, and anger, and the knowledge that I had to do what I’ve done. That I would never do to someone what they’d done to me.

And my brain has done the courtesy of reminding me of when they were who I needed them to be. When times were simpler. The memories come back in rosy, warm, hues. A summer’s day when this person decided it would be fun to go on a ghost hunting adventure at an abandoned hotel. This same person also may or may not have stolen a doorknob from the abandoned property. Talking about their favorite horse they’d ridden when they were a kid, and seeing the saddle they’d used. Looking through their memories and adopting them as your own. Believing that they could do anything because they were strong, fiery, and passionate.

Then seeing them for who they are.

Seeing them participate in manipulating you. The rose-colored memories shatter, and what’s revealed is always the same: a person marred by generational trauma. Someone who chooses the easiest thing over and over. Willing to rationalize your abuse because they rationalized their own, or, even the abuse they themselves inflicted. Where there had been a pillar of strength, there is a human. A broken, beautiful, wonderful, horrible, tragic human.

And no matter what you do, no matter what I did, this human will never choose me. They can’t. I’ve been the fixer, the reliable, dependable scape goat. The vector for pain, and for their anxieties. I have been the listener, the one who understands. The one who is patient. Who drops it all to come to the rescue. The one who can always be counted on. I’ve borne the brunt of their poor choices, and I’ve worn the scars they’ve given me with pride because that’s what you do for family. That’s what you do for family. You sacrifice everything for family. You let them take and take and take because you will always have more.

But I don’t.

I’ve been stretched to my thinnest (metaphorically) as of late. I haven’t slept well for months, while this has been going on with this family member. They have used their poor health, their age, and their ever-looming end of life to try to manipulate me into doing what they want.  I’ve risked my fulltime job, getting my first ever write-up, rushing to their side because it was implied by their spouse that they were on their deathbed.

And I have made peace with them. I’ve given them all I can.

They went into a local hospital, and I contacted the phone they share with their spouse repeatedly, letting them know I love them, that I hope they’re okay. Asking how they’re doing. Their spouse was one point of contact for the hospital, and my mother – who I do not speak with – was the other. Their spouse wasn’t letting me know what was going on. Due to the silence, I was convinced this person was dying.

And then I called the hospital and learned they were discharged with a relatively positive prognosis.

And no one told me.

Their spouse could have told me. They could have called (since they’re not big on texting). When they implied this person was dying a couple of months ago, they had no trouble at all using their shared phone to call me to their side. And when I arrived, they were as casual as could be – very different from how they were on the phone.

They could have handed the phone to someone else. They could have let me know.

I checked in almost daily with them. And I was told nothing. They chose to make my mother – not a blood relative of theirs – a point of contact. They knew what they were doing.

And finally…I had to say goodbye. I’m drained. I’m done. I have nothing left to give them. I have spent nights sobbing about them, and how much I want them to be okay. Why hang on? Why encourage this behavior?

“I love you.” One last text sent. It’s an honest one. I do love them. I love all of them. Each family member I’ve had to block I love deeply. If I didn’t, it’d be easy. I love them so much, and I want to hold onto them, to show them I’m strong enough, good enough, smart enough, worthy enough for them to love me, to care about me, and to be proud of me. That I’m person enough for them to value, and to really see. To love.

But…they can’t.

They want me to be Tosha – the girl with a quick wit who will make them laugh because she knows the right beats to hit. The girl who is easy to dismiss because she is their court jester and can’t possibly care about anything real or permanent.  The girl relegated to overly-simplified descriptions because if Tosha is just, “the stubborn one,” or, “the difficult child,” or, “the bad one”, then she’s easy. She can be overlooked. She can listen and never get tired. She can give what they need when they need it, and they don’t have to worry about her.

But I am so much more than that Tosha. I always have been more than that one-dimensional part I played for them. Even then, I designed worlds in my head, imagined characters, and wrote their stories down in notebook after notebook, my pen flying across the page. I’d disappear into a book, finding myself in the words of my favorite authors, and ceasing to be – if only for a moment – the reductive thing they wanted me to be. And now, no longer constricted, I am so much more than I was when I hid from them. I write books, I write for this site, and I share pieces of myself with you, my audience. I have made a family for myself of people who (for some reason) genuinely want to be around me, and who are interested in what’s going on in my life. I explore hobbies I was told I was bad at – cooking, baking, gardening, and even a little sewing (not much, honestly – but hey, I try) – and I manage to grow happy plants, bake some pretty awesome pumpkin muffins, and cook a mean zuppa Toscana.

I am so much more than they want me to be.

I am no longer limited by the beliefs of those who raised me, and their ilk.

I am free.

And that’s what I cling to: the peace that comes with that freedom. It’s there, under the pain, under the fresh, tear-stained cuts. It’s there, beneath the radiating agony of the boundaries I’ve had to set: peace. It’s not a happy feeling, precisely, but by god, it’s something to cling to. And last night was the first night in a long time I was able to sleep and not wake up during the night.

Tears are in my eyes as I write this, and my heart really feels like it’s breaking, because no one – no one – wants to do this. No one wants to cut the people they love out. We have to, because they give us no other option. And beneath the tears, and the sobs, and the hard choices, when the proverbial dust has settled, and resolution decided, there’s peace.

Peace is worth the pain.