Feeling Self Conscious in Journal

I can’t remember the last time I felt it this strongly.
I finally met an older woman yesterday after months of email and then mail correspondence. I had hoped to find a friend, homeschool co-op partner or just someone who is nearby that knows something about homeschooling and Waldorf.
But holy cow are my radars going wild.
I wasn’t sure what it was for awhile, but now I realize that she reminds me of my mom. Not in a good way. I don’t think she had much of any sensitivity to my unease around her. It was our first meeting, after all. And that’s not good. I found myself expressing sympathy in our conversations and receiving none… It was very much like talking to my mother. Like talking to a brick wall. lol. A very pretty, attractive, well painted and coiffed brick wall. But a brick wall nonetheless.
She has, like my mother, this worldview of sentient souls that somehow choose when and where to whom to be born.
I find this entire idea abhorrent. It is a very convenient excuse for parents to excuse and recuse themselves of abusing their children. And, it is in itself abusive to tell me that I chose to be born to my parents and so am responsible for the abuse that I suffered at their hands. And, it is simply an empirically insane idea.
So, it’s subjectively abhorrent, personally offensive, and objectively insane.
Yet still I wonder.
Why? Why do I wonder?
Because I had to wonder. I had to wonder about the teeniest tiniest glimmers of hope that my own mother wasn’t insane. To abandon wonder in preference for clarity of her insanity would have probably killed me. Or gotten me killed.
And again, my mother’s haunting defense of her parenting come to mind; “Well you’re still alive, aren’t you?”