I was in Dreams

somewhere odd. It was a place that seemed somehow timeless, and I knew that I was dreaming. I don’t think that makes the dream any less meaningful, though. Perhaps moreso. I am often aware that I am dreaming, and unexpected things still happen.
Anywho, the environment of the dream was pale; all the colors were pastel. Even the people were, but I wasn’t. I was still vividly and realistically me. The time was obscure- my mom was there but she was a much younger version. I want to say a version from my preadolescence. She seemed.... naive. Mystified, uncomprehending, ignorant. I was me, now, and she was from my past. Her apparent ignorance of my suffering and misery was… infuriating. And yet, I know that it was not unfamiliar to her. My manner, my attitude, my speech, my avoidance of her, my unwillingness to be “nice” to her, to do what she wanted, to give her the attention and acknowledgement and affirmation that she wanted, was hurtful to her. I knew it was, and that is why I did it.
Except, instead of silence and simply acting all this out as it happened in reality, some of it came out in conversation. Mom asked me some questions- questions which she would ask if she were aware of and concerned about my state. A hypocrisy; an oxymoron. Because she can never ask these questions if she is actually ignorant and naive to my suffering.
And I told her why. I told her what happened.
“Your mother treated you terribly. You were raised in a negative, destructive, violent, unforgiving, horrible situation. But, mom, you did the exact same thing to me.” I told her, my voice harsh and my visage hard.
Her face, so young and fresh and naive and hopeful, crumpled into a mask of misery. “I never wanted that!” she cried, desperately clinging to her image of becoming better than her parents.
“Mom,” I said derisively. “You chose this when you forgave your mom. When you invited her into your life, my life, you chose your fate, and mine.
You forgave your mother because she was helpless, because she was pitiable, because she was a victim of your father; you gave yourself permission to be helpless, pitiable, a victim. Your naivete and ignorance is my suffering. You chose this. You, and no one else.”
Her face seemed to start imploding. Yet there was a glimmer of understanding in her eyes. She knows, I saw. I could see her face screw up in a ask of misery but behind that mask was rage.
It was a rage for my refusal to play the game. She chose to forgive her mother for her helplessness and ignorance and naivete- and so should I! She modeled for me the behavior that would at once allow her to abuse and mistreat me in the same ways she was and receive blessed sweet forgiveness.
But I broke that deal. It was a deal I never chose. I never could choose. And in fact, I am choosing not to participate in that devil’s offer. I had no choice when I was born, or when I was a child or even as a young adult. But I do, now. And my choice- my power to choose- is utterly unforgivable and infuriating to her.
Her reaction was to turn and walk away, weeping in quiet defeat. I wanted badly to follow her and continue to tell her all the ways in which she hurt me, every offense, every injury and every failure to keep me, the consequences for which she now suffered. But, I didn’t. I just watched her go. Knowing that she will never turn around- my mother will never admit her choices or how they affected me. My mother will never tell me that her suffering is not my fault.
No. My mother will act out that same old story that she imposed on me since my conception. Her suffering is all my fault. And I am a selfish, manipulative, hurtful person for not even apologizing.