Likeness in Journal

There are lots of ways that I am like my mother.
I realized that I am still too angry to be productively curious about my mother. So, why am I angry? Because I am not safe.
Still.
I’m still not safe.
Even just saying that and writing that puts so much into perspective. Anger is there to protect me. Why would I be angry if I didn’t still need protection? And indeed protection because I’m still not safe.
I’ve said this before, but my mother is vicious. She spent time and energy getting to know me so that she could more effectively and efficiently control me. She is cold, calculating, and patient. If it isn’t the best or most effective moment for some tactic or move, she will wait. She waits in relative silence, so that there is at least a lull in other tactics or abuses. She never discloses her dislike honestly. She never opened up about her personal feelings or experiences; she merely became silent and waited for a moment when I was vulnerable.
I have a lot of temptation to do this. Not so much act out viscous punishments, but if I’m bothered, I retreat in silence and my imagination invariably concocts revenge. I still do this; a wonderful mother legacy. I don’t however mindlessly hate or disparage this part of me. I try to understand it. It’s just that it is very difficult to impossible when it is a mother-part, and I have a lot of anger from my child-parts who were so hurt by this. It isn’t safe, they say. It’s dangerous. We’re too angry.
This is where practicality and reality take precidence. I moved. My mother immediately sent physical mail to our new house. It felt vaguely threatening.
It’s been suggested that I need space and anonymity from her. Well, from my father, too. But he is far less inclined to go out of his way to extract revenge or enact vicious punishment. It is my mother that really is truly a terror. I think that’s right. I need space and anonymity.