The spiritual teacher Miguel Ruiz established four agreements for a good life, and the second is: вЂњTake nothing personally. But I can never trust her, and love only goes so far without trust.Д«uddhism teaches that our parents give us a body, and the rest is up to us. I know what to expect, and, more importantly, what not to. I can stay connected to her because I see her clearly. As long as I play happy and keep my pain to myself, we get on famously. And sheвЂ™s proud of me - even if sheвЂ™s never known where she stops and where I begin: вЂњI bathe in reflected gloryвЂќ is a favorite saying of hers.Дespite the things sheвЂ™s done, she loves me, tainted though that love is. My mother is a warm, charming woman with a playful, accommodating nature as long as youвЂ™re not one of her offspring in emotional distress, sheвЂ™s generous, kind and helpful. вЂњWhat does that tell you?вЂќ I asked, but she remained silent. вЂњI canвЂ™t remember anything from before the age of 7,вЂќ she said once. Such dysfunction, such emotional disconnection, such narcissism speaks of damage that goes very deep.

SheвЂ™s such a flawed bundle of insecurities that she even needed her children to find her sexually attractive, imposing herself on us in ways so murkily inappropriate we were left demolished, muted, unable to form any kind of response. My motherвЂ™s been competing with other women all her life - starting with her own mother over her fatherвЂ™s affections, with me over my father, my boyfriends, my husband, and with her friends over any man around. It took a lot for me to understand my mother, and even more to forgive her, but IвЂ™ve learned to see her behavior in a wider context. One reason I didnвЂ™t is that my sons deserve to have a grandmother who adores them, so I chose to protect their relationship with her. I answered, pointing out that whether or not penetration took place is entirely beside the point, and if I were going to cut her out of my life I would have done so already. Then I got a second letter, begging me not to cut her out of my life, that she would always love me unconditionally. IвЂ™m not proud of some of the things IвЂ™ve done, but I canвЂ™t go back to change anything.вЂќ When I told her I was writing this essay, she responded, вЂњYou do what you want to do. It took a lot for me to understand my mother, and even more to forgive her. Later, a friend asked, вЂњWhy donвЂ™t you have it out with her?вЂќ (My husband, by then, long gone.) Impossible - sheвЂ™s pathologically incapable of assuming responsibility and would resort toВ attacking, crying or inventing excuses.В Occasionally IвЂ™ve alluded to that night.В Last year she wrote telling me she didnвЂ™t have sexual intercourse with my husband, and it was painful and unfair to be вЂњfalsely accused.вЂќ This is the way of things in our family: hysterics when the catвЂ™s tail gets caught in the door, but if your 16-year-old son takes off into the night in crisis or your 18-year-old daughter slashes her wrists, we donвЂ™t talk about it, it didnвЂ™t happen.В Ours isnвЂ™t the only family like this, but with us the habit of denial runs especially deep. In the morning my husband goes to work, and my mother and I pretend nothing has happened. Eventually, my husband comes into our bedroom. I hear the door to the spare room where my mother sleeps open and close.

вЂњThey deserve each other.вЂќ I take myself off to bed but canвЂ™t sleep. Unable to deal with it, I ignoreВ them.В I should throw a pot of cold water over them, throw them out of the house and out of my life, but IвЂ™m so tired my face is falling off and my bones are crumbling, and this is too outrageous to even acknowledge. My husband and my mother are making out, in front of me, in myВ living room. While I get my sons fed and ready for bed, I can see the massage is becoming something else. ThereвЂ™s an undercurrent, something unspoken, between them. My husband sits on the couch and my motherвЂ™s on the floor in front of him.

The baby needs a bottle and the toddler demands a hug.

The tension between me and my husband escalates daily. My mother has a loving bond with my boys, and itвЂ™s good to have another pair of hands and someone to talk to. They wake every single night -В my older boy is asthmaticВ - and IвЂ™m the one who gets up to help them. My babyвЂ™s just over a year old and my toddler nearly 3. The author is a writer, performer and visual artist based in Melbourne, Australia.

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