We were seated closely on the small, plush loveseat in the therapist’s office. The absence of windows allowed for a cozy atmosphere illuminated by table lamps rather than the harsh overhead fluorescents. The walls were lined with bookshelves, her desk was positioned against another wall, and her well-worn armchair was situated near us. Dr. Smith exuded a comforting presence, and her evident care for Noah brought a measure of solace to my troubled heart.
I had braced myself for challenging therapy sessions, eager to embrace the discomfort that often accompanies healing. I understood that true restoration rarely comes without confronting pain, and I was willing to face it if it meant fostering a brighter future for us. Dr. Smith had a unique talent for asking questions that delved deep while still honoring individual experiences.
Although we had only met a few times—having exchanged several phone calls and numerous emails—she grasped the intricacies of our family dynamic, and for the first time, I felt acknowledged. With a gentle yet direct approach, she inquired if I was aware of how my frustration had manifested as resentment towards Noah.
A lump formed in my throat as I felt him shift slightly beside me. I nodded, tears welling in my eyes. I had uttered that painful word before within safe circles—among friends who cared for both me and Noah—where it had slipped out as a mix of shame and relief. Yet, I had never encountered another mother who expressed similar feelings about her child; still, I could not ignore the truth that resentment had taken root within me.
Before responding, a fleeting thought crossed my mind about denying it, wanting to shield his heart from further pain and rejection. What mother wants her child to know she feels resentment? Yet, I was there to confront the reality of our relationship, not to hide behind false dreams of what I had hoped it would be.
I wanted to clarify my feelings to him—that my resentment was not directed at him as a person. I longed to explain that it stemmed from the illness, the ‘disorder,’ and the circumstances we had endured together. I felt an inner urgency to reassure him that this toxic feeling was not aimed at his heart or character.
However, I fell silent. In that moment of panic, I realized that qualifying my feelings would only diminish his. To plead for his understanding of my hurt would invalidate his experience. I allowed the painful silence to linger, bearing the weight of my own shortcomings and pain. I was terrified to look at him and see hurt reflected in his beautiful eyes. The shame seeped into my thoughts, and the brokenness within me craved acceptance, as though embracing shame might somehow atone for the hurt I had unknowingly inflicted upon my teenage son.
He remained silent. I braced myself for anger or withdrawal, expecting him to bitterly say, “I knew it.” But no words came. Instead, his body relaxed. The moment was overwhelming, vast, and oddly simple.
He already knew. He had sensed my frustration over the years, felt the sting of my anger and disdain. He had noticed when I turned away from him during his excited recounting of his latest interests, recoiling in fear that yet another unmet desire would trigger his explosive meltdowns.
As I sat beside him, the silence stretched out, feeling like an eternity. I could sense his tension easing as I acknowledged my shame, and my intuition told me he felt grateful for my honesty. My admission had restored a measure of dignity to him, giving him confidence and reassurance that he hadn’t imagined the hurt.
So, I sat there—hands tightly clasped in my lap, facing forward, willing my tears to cease out of respect for him. A few tears slipped down my cheeks, but I didn’t dare wipe them away, wanting to preserve the energy in the room. I refused to let my emotional turmoil undermine the progress we had made during the session.
My gaze was fixed on the bookcase, watching the titles about mental illness blur into a mocking swirl of self-help. I heard him take a deep breath and stretch his legs, signaling the end of our session. Yet, I remained seated, overwhelmed by crashing emotions—anger towards the illness that had damaged our relationship, frustration with myself for not being stronger, grief over the reality of driving home without him again, and an intense desire to pull him close and erase every hurt with the beat of my heart against his.
But the session had come to a close. It was time for him to return to the unit, and for me to drive home. I turned to him, and he embraced me.
“I love you, Mom.”
His familiar voice reminded me that a strained relationship doesn’t equate to a lost one, and I knew he understood that I loved 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 Dr. Smith out through the maze of sterile corridors and heavy doors.
As we walked in silence, I realized that the damage from my resentment had already been done. In that moment, the most valuable gift I could offer him was acknowledging that I had caused him pain; and through that admission, by unearthing the shame and revealing my brokenness, I felt it—we were beginning to move towards healing.
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Summary:
In a therapy session, a mother confronts her feelings of resentment towards her son, stemming from their struggles with mental health. Despite the discomfort, her admission helps restore some dignity to her son, paving the way for healing and a deeper understanding of their relationship.