I Admit in A Childhood Lost

I do keep checking the Spam folder to see if my mom emailed me again.
I don’t even recall what day it was, if it was still March or early April, that I saw that mom had emailed again and I just sent her to Spam without reading it.
It’s just more Bull Shit. I know that. If I don’t know that by now, I don’t know anything.
Why would I choose to inflict this on myself? Especially if I am proposing that choice is a function of Free Will and that elevating choice is the epitome of virtue?
Then, to be consistent with my own proposed ideals, I must act to consistently elevate my choices.
And in that moment, I had a choice to inflict my mother’s poisonous narrative upon my psyche one more time… or not to. Which choice would lead to more choice? Which decision would mean more freedom?
Since the infliction of suffering upon myself is the definition of less freedom, there is only one valid answer.
But I keep checking. I wonder why that is?

The thought that pops up is, I wonder if she misses me?
I really do wonder.
And… I don’t think she does. I really, really don’t. If only because I was never a person to her in the first place. I was only ever a receptacle for her projections. She never knew me. She was never curious about me. My mother never had any idea of what or who or how I was.
So, she cannot miss me.

It is just as well. I feel a great deal of grief… for the mother that I never had, and for the mothering that I will never receive. I accept that my actual mother never gave that to me. There are no do-overs. And adults don’t get to muck about pretending that they’re children again.
Well. I guess some do. But it is a destructive game that leads to immense sorrow and suffering.
I suppose, that is what my mother did.