I am struggling with writing these days. My heart is quite full of conflicting emotions, and I wonder about pouring them out here. I mean, this journal is for me, but I know others read it. So, I have hesitated to write.

I wanted my birthday to be special. I wanted my family to call and send cards. The day passed (and many days after) without cards. I wanted it to be special because of where I am right now.

I have been set aside by my mother, charged not to contact her unless I am ready to apologize for abusing her. She and my step-father heaped vile anger upon me via voice mail and email. All begun because I said I had already chosen my clothing for the trip I was taking to take the photos of her most recent project. I am approaching my forth decade and have been struggling to set the most basic of boundaries with her. She started to tell me what to wear. I replied that I had already chosen my clothing (work clothing since we would be at the show house, but a pants suit that would be most comfortable on the plane). She launched into a tirade about how selfish I was and what a disappointment I was and hung up on me. With that click, with the silence that followed, something moved inside that I could no longer ignore. It is not selfish of me to want to choose my own clothing. The words she flung at me were not what is true and real about who I am.

After wiping away my tears, praying about my words, and checking with a few others, I emailed boundaries for the trip: no criticism about my hair, clothing, eating choices, or decisions. We would focus on the work at hand...or I could remain at home. I was coming to help her. Period.

When she received the email and called me, I was in the shower and didn't answer. That was enough to send her over the edge. She is quite skilled at saying the unforgettable and used every verbal barb at her disposal. She also had my step-father call and leave an equally hurtful voice mail. Hurtful emails followed.

In addition to all the rest, she also claimed that I help her less and less in my own selfishness. I spent many hours helping with my grandmother's funeral and setting up the scholarship fund. I spent months on her website and weeks on her brochure. Yes, I never help her any more.

I will not apologize for abusing her. There is a line within me that I cannot, will not cross. She and my father never rescued me from my uncle's attentions as child. They regularly left us with violent drunks. My sister says that it was just the way things were back then. I disagree. I have accepted that I will never be able to talk with my family about the choices of that time and the scars that mar me still, because we just don't speak of such things. If you do not speak of them, then they didn't happen. There was a time I longed for that, but I have accepted that such a conversation, barring the grace of God, will never happen. However, I will never apologize for something that is completely untrue. I will never admit to being that which I abhor, that which I would never inflict on another person for the weight of it in my own life.

I have struggled for years with how to honor a parent who does not really love, who chooses to focus what needs to be "improved" over all else. I have struggled and failed at finding a balance between pleasing her and standing up for myself.

I never heard: "I believe in you." "I will always support you." "You can do anything you set your mind to do." I heard: "You are an embarrassment at your weight". "You are selfish, which is why you are not married. No one could stand living with you." "You wasted your time getting a Ph.D. since you don't even use it."

Even now, with three chronic, incurable diseases, she never called to see how I was doing, even when one of my siblings let her know I was ill. I had to learn to stop longing for a "mother."

I found myself in the position of no longer trying to please her, because I knew that would never be possible. I found myself in the position, however, of trying to mitigate the criticism sure to come by making choices that might appease her...clothing, hair, etc. But in the last few years, I have started responding to her directives by saying such things as 'I'm 35; I think I'm old enough to pick out my clothes." It didn't work. Perhaps my attempts were too feeble.

It is funny, her favorite book is When I Say No I Feel Guilty. I said, "no." I do not feel guilty. It cost me my family.

My brother believes it will blow over. My sister believes differently. She knows my mother has not spoken to her brother and sister for over two decades.

It has been five weeks. Waves of sadness wash over me still, yet I am walking in more freedom than I have in years. It is with chagrin and a bit regret that I have been realizing how very much I adjusted of who I am, of what I would prefer or enjoy, to avoid her criticism. It is relief that I no longer carry that burden.

It is not that I no longer wish to have a relationship with her. But I am no longer willing to cater to avoiding her displeasure, her vicious ire. I have tasted better.

My best friend's mother sent me a note with a refund check in which she signed off "Bonnie or Mom, whichever you prefer." She will never understand what her offer means to me. Her daughter sees the best in me, something I count as precious each and every day for the past decade. My mother sees the worst. My mother ridicules my guffaw laugh. My friend welcomes it.

While it is a struggle still to believe my friend over my mother's words that still ring in my ears, I choose to pick out my own clothing. I choose to wear lipstick only when the mood strikes. I choose to be accepted just as I am. I choose love.