Impersonal. in Journal

My old therapist told me that, what my parents did was because of who they are, not because of who I was.
I brought this up to my mom. She said, that was one of the biggest lessons she learned from her therapist, back when she was doing therapy.

I was shocked. I was shocked that she had this little tidbit of wisdom. I utterly surprised that she was aware that her mother was largely unconscious of her sins (which are massive) and continues to live as if they never happened, or never hurt anyone, and she is only the victim of everyone else and the world.
I was shocked mostly because, as I brought up how I was unhappy with my own childhood, my mother continues to blame everyone else, including me.

So I’ve been thinking about that. What does it mean that she is merely acting out from her own past, her own history, that had nothing to do with me? That, in all practicality, it wouldn’t matter if I were there or if it were someone else?
Well. It means that she is not capable of a relationship. She is not capable of taking responsibility for her behavior. She merely acts out some script that plays out from her past. How can I relate to her? Except as an object that speaks and behaves in consistent ways, I don’t know that there is any relation to be had.
I cannot love or respect the actions of an object, since they are entirely dictated by physics.
Likewise, I cannot love or respect anyone that does not take ownership of their behavior. Perhaps, I could love someone despite their admittedly uncontrollable behavior, as in someone with Tourettes syndrome. But, I cannot love them because they have Tourettes. That is entirely out of their control.

Additionally. How can she love me? If it were of no consequence that I was me, or someone else entirely, how can she love me? If my own identity is something completely arbitrary to her, something exchangeable for any other identity; it is effectively valueless.
So it would seem, my mother never loved me. Not really. She loved the idea of a daughter. The idea of having a person around that couldn’t leave. The idea of a female child that behaved and acted in a respectful manner. As long as the behavior conformed to her expectations, it mattered not at all who it was. It still matters not at all.

As I discover this, I begin to realize that the basis for my behavior is to conform to her expectations. I begin to realize how I really feel. Because not feeling is one of her expectations for me. Not feeling is a requirement for me to please my mother.
I peel back these layers, and I observe the difference in myself. I am lighter. I am happier. I don’t care too much about crying in front of my husband. Tears aren’t bad. Crying isn’t bad. Anger isn’t bad. It’s all okay. Good, even. I wholly prefer to express my emotions.
Of course I do.
Every human being that ever existed prefers to express their emotions.
It is only the tyrants around us that prefer that we do not express our emotions.