Our Parents Aren’t Entitled to Our Love

Not at the cost of our happiness

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My dear friend’s mom died last week. Pancreatic cancer, age 60. Less than two months from diagnosis to death. This woman’s daughter loves me, and so she accepted me as one of hers from the start. For eleven years, I was part of her brood. She offered me unconditional acceptance, even when I shyly showed her what makes me who I am.

Her death has made me ruminate on many things, the biggest of which is — why this woman? Why this wonderful human, who was so loved by so many, and who will be so greatly missed? I don’t want my mother to die, but why Cathy, when my own miserable mother gets to live?

My mother is a narcissist. My dad is her enabler. Both are products of the emotionally stunted times in which they grew up, and yet neither has any interest in growth or change. My grandparents were my saviors growing up, helping to raise me and topped off the love that I so desperately needed and forever ran low on. They were also the people who created my parents, though, which will forever hurt my brain.

There should be more to life than treading water in the toxicity in which my parents swam

So much generational trauma. Such a twisted legacy to leave. Such an unyielding…