I never know if you read my letters. I never know if you understand my heart or what it is I’m trying to say when I’m writing, and that’s part of what makes them so difficult to write. I love you, and I know that the way I keep you at a distance makes it seem otherwise. I know that there are things in these letters I write to you that are hard to read, and that could make it seem like I don’t love you. Yet, it is because I love you that I tell you these things; I hate that our relationship is broken, and I’m hoping that there may be a way to fix it somehow. Maybe there isn’t. I don’t know. But I can’t go without trying.

In the summer of 2010, I had to see a therapist as part of our adoption process. The Quality Control people at the Cherokee Nation wanted to be sure they could say they’d made sure someone with my background had been through a mental health assessment before they’d let me have custody of one of their children, so I had to talk to a therapist, visit with a psychologist, take an MMPI, and share those results with them to prove I was stable and healthy enough to raise a child.

In the process, one of the people I spoke with recommended the book “Boundaries” to me. She had no concern about my mental health, but she was worried about the way I felt obliged to try to repair our relationship, and wanted me to read this book so I could learn about healthy boundaries between people. She was worried that I didn’t have a healthy sense of boundaries and didn’t know how to say no to you when I needed to, not really. I disagreed, but bought the book to see what it had to say.

I was half way through when one of the small groups at church decided to do it for Sunday School. We signed up and have spent the better part of the year going through it as a group. It’s been a fantastic experience, and while I went into this having been told I needed stronger boundaries with you, I had people in my class point out to me that perhaps I needed to examine why I had boundaries with you and make certain I was being fair with you, not judging you on past behaviors or rumors.

The book has been so good I decided to get you a copy. I want you to understand the things I’ve come to understand about myself as a part of this study. You see, Boundaries isn’t about changing other people; it’s about setting personal limits so that you change yourself to be a better person. It’s about recognizing the personal limits of others. It’s about not being a victim or a victimizer. It’s about taking charge of yourself and taking personal responsibilty.

In the first part of the book, you’ll learn about the different kind of boundary problems. I want you to know this: I’ve recognized in myself all four problems at one point of my life or another, in one relationship or another. There are some of them that I’ve learned to recognize already and am better at dealing with, but there are some that I still have to work to overcome. I want you to know what it is I’m trying to say when I put up a wall between us; what it means to me to say “this is my boundary, and I need to maintain it.”

This is the Saturday before Mother’s Day, and I cannot tell you how profoundly painful this weekend is for me. More than the anniversary of Dad’s death, more than Father’s Day, more than his birthday, more than any other date on the calendar, this weekend is so deep a wound I can not interact with other people. I am an overwhelmingly social person, so for me to have a time that is so stunningly painful that I shut down and shut people completely out says something. I connect to people when I hurt, when I’m depressed, when I need to keep going, but this one weekend every year, I withdraw, I hide, I don’t go to church, and I ache all the way to the core.

Mother’s Day is all about praising our wonderful mothers. It’s all about singing the praises of wives who are raising wonderful children and the sainted mothers who sacrificed for us. Except, see, I have neither of those things. A barren woman, I have no child that I am raising to be a shining star in the heavens. I never even miscarried; no unborn infant awaits me in heaven. Everyone I know tells me I’d be a great mother, and yet two years after I’ve started trying, I still haven’t gotten anywhere on the adoption front. I begin to give up hope. The reproductive system I hated from the first time I had a period proved nothing more than a cruel tease and a literal pain.

As for a sainted mother who sacrificed for me... well, do I need to go into how much that doesn’t apply to me? Yes, there are things about my childhood that I didn’t hate. There are things I took away that tell me you did love us, as much as you knew how. But I can’t even blame the way you abused us on a drinking problem. You were sober when you beat us... you knew what you were doing. It wasn’t the drink making you mean... that was you.

More than that, the first time Brian came for me, that first time I couldn’t say anything... It was May 1988. We were visiting over the weekend while you worked on getting custody of us back from Mama & Papa. You had a bad weekend, and I stayed up late to work on a gift for you... I had a cross stitch kit, but I didn’t know how to do it, so I colored a picture on the cloth and framed it with the frame. I remember sitting up in my room in my snoopy pajamas. Do you know why I remember it all? Do you know why I was making you a gift, why I couldn’t tell you? It was mother’s day, and I wasn’t going to ruin your mother’s day. It wasn’t going to be my fault.

The woman who has been supposed to protect me was asleep while I was being attacked. Later, another time, you came into the room while he molesting me. He told you he was popping a pimple on my bottom; you said my dad had a pimply butt, turned around and left. My life hasn’t been marked by a mother who sacrificed for me, but by one who sacrificed me.

And yet, I can’t give up on you. I can’t not love you. In the deepest parts of who I am, I want my Mommy. I convinced myself a decade ago that it was unfair of me to expect that of you, that you weren’t equipped to be her... but I can’t give up on the hope that you were born to be more than who you have been, more than who you are. That when God crafted you, it wasn’t to be the woman who sacrificed me, who broke me, but one who was lovely, praiseworthy, loving.

So here I am, the night before Mother’s Day, the phones unplugged, unable to look at the card you’ve sent me yet, afraid to hear your voice, afraid to face anyone, longing for nothing else, and uncertain how to reach a seemingly impossible goal. I don’t want to dread your calls. I don’t want to feel the need to sneak around behind your back to visit family. I don’t want to feel the way I feel about you, but I do, and I don’t know how not to. I’ve tried putting up walls, but it doesn’t help. You don’t seem to understand why I’ve walled you off, nothing changes, and I still dread the phone call, the email, the contact.

So this is my attempt to fix things. Boundaries. Telling you what I’ve learned about what was broken in me, in a hope that maybe it will help you understand why I build the walls. Why the gates are so hard to figure out. Why I can send you roses, but can barely speak when you call. Because deep down, I love you. I hope for you. I long for the best in you, but the little girl in me is so broken that she needs walls to protect her from the you she can’t stop seeing.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry that this letter hurt you. I know that it did. I know I’ve said hurtful things recently. But I’m not sorry that I spoke truth, and if it finally made you understand me, then maybe, like the surgeries I’ve had to deal with, it was worth it. If it didn’t... well, add it to whatever you’ve done with the others. I’ll keep praying that someday, something will get through.