Shortly after my birthday, Rahne gave me the next postcard from my mother. Rahne had this penchant for getting the mail just before going to bed, and I had requested that Rahne hold onto any mail from my mother until the next morning. I hated to get mad just before going to bed. It seemed unfair.
This practice resulted in Rahne getting the postcard in the mail the night before we were to go away for the holiday and my birthday. As a result, she ended up holding onto it until we returned from our trip.
“Happy Birthday to a Wonderful Daughter
Whose Mother & Father
Love her dearly
No matter what…
Love, Mother”
Ah, that woman had a wonderful way with words. From that card, I knew two things without question. One was that my father had told my mother that I, in the guise of Andrew, had come to visit. The other, of course, was that Jeannette was pissed.
The other more distant chill was the words, “No matter what…” I had heard the troops use those words repeatedly, seemingly eternally to describe the force with which they were programmed to commit violent acts no matter how distasteful. Because, they were programmed to do whatever was necessary to preserve the group “NO MATTER WHAT”—with the true conviction of what “No matter what” entails. It was frightening and powerful.
Having those words tagged on and thrown in my direction by my mother just confirmed the feeling that nothing was safe and nothing mattered but the preservation of the group.
* * * * * * *
I was enraged. It didn’t take me long to fashion a reply:
“1/1/92
Dear Jeannette:
You dare to say “no matter what…” to me. I’ll tell you what “no matter what” means:
That you are so shrouded in denial that you would let your daughter cut her arm to ribbons, be committed to a mental hospital, and struggle her entire adult life for emotional health and never admit the truth of having a violent and abusive family.
That rather than own up to your pain about the violence and abuse, you would delve into an emotionally incestuous relationship with your daughter, and offer only sexual physical affection as solace to her.
That you would allow your children to be continually battered by a group of men rather than stop it by speaking up.
That even now, you would offer your daughter “unconditional love” as long as she does not insist that you recognize the abuse.
I’ll tell you what I want from you. I want NO CONTACT. I don’t want you to write to me or give me things or talk to me—“no matter what…” That is what “no matter what…” means. I am finished with you and my father “no matter what…” with no more appeal rights for you than I had as a child.
End transmission, Joceile”
I knew it was perfect. I longed to send it, but I made myself wait until I saw Barbara again to decide.
In fact, as the week went by, it occurred to me that more than anything I did not want contact with my mother. By the time I got to Barbara’s office, I realized I wanted no contact so badly I did not even want to send the letter. So it was that I maintained the strongest position I’d ever had with my mother. No contact.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t as if my mother was the least little bit inclined to let it go.
* * * * * * *
The next Saturday, there was another note from Jeannette. I began referring to this as the Period of Contact. Since I assumed that this period would end eventually.
This time, Jeannette actually sent a letter in an envelope. But she put a message on the back of the envelope just in case I was tempted to throw it away without opening it.
“My counselor’s name is Deedee Mumford Fenagle, M.D. Her papers are inside. You have one prepaid visit with her, and one group visit with me, and whomever else you wish: Jack, Dad, Gran & Grandpa. Love, Mother.”
Inside along with Dr. Fenagle’s disclosure statement, was a yellow sticky note (actually, it was pink) from Jeannette: “I understand now I was negligent leaving you with an alcoholic. I’d like to tell you I’m sorry. I’m also very sorry about your pain. I wish we could have talked long ago. Mother.”
I could carry on for years about my mental response, but this is what I wrote:
“2/1/92
Dear Jeannette:
The point by point rebuttal:
- I already have a counselor. If you need one, feel free to see the one you’ve picked out for me.
- How terribly magnanimous of you to offer to pay for a session. Exactly, what the hell do you think I’ve been doing for 15 years?
- I have no need nor desire for family therapy. You are entitled to invite anyone YOU want to your own session.
In addition, let me reiterate that I have no need to communicate with you in any manner. I want nothing from you.
As you may have noticed, it is not acceptable to conduct our relationship by the old rules. I see you’re struggling to say the right words to get me back into the fold to continue our old relationship. No, thank you.
But, cheer up, there’s always the dim possibility that in your thrashing around you might actually stumble upon what is required. The trick is, though, you have to discover it yourself. I can’t fix it for you.
Furthermore, to emphasize my desire to not engage with you, I won’t even tell you as much as I have in this letter, because I won’t send it.
On the other hand, when my book is done, you’ll be the first to get a copy.
End transmission: Joceile”
This is what I actually sent (in postcard form):
“Jeannette:
No.
Stop contacting me.
Joceile”
It wasn’t hard for me to remember what that postcard said. It wasn’t easy for me to forget either. No one should ever have to send a postcard like that to their mother. I also hadn’t much faith that my mother would listen or respect even those small words. But I felt that I had to at least state them clearly once for me.
It caused me to have warring factions. “I wish that I didn’t have to send a postcard like that to my mother,” I told friends. “I wish my mother would get what I want her to understand so words like that wouldn’t be necessary.” Part of me wanted my mother to keep attempting to contact me in the vain hope that she would say the right words. Part of me wanted my mother to just stop saying any words at all, because they would never be the right ones.