You failed at your marriage

My mom said to me, you failed at your marriage. 

It was unexpected. My mind didn't really register her words but my body started to react. I noticed some physical sensation but instead of pausing to let my mind catch up, I quickly moved into an intellectual response.

I explained to my mom, Ma, it's not really about success or failure. A lot of people stay in unhappy marriages and treat each other poorly. If you're seeing it from that lens, you wouldn't call that a successful marriage, would you? I didn't fail though. I loved and I learned. This is just life. 

Somehow, I thought reframing would help. But it didn't. She said some things in return, but I was in such shock by her words that I don't recall the rest of the conversation. We hung up. She had no idea the impact of her words. I didn't either. I had to rush out of my place to catch Bart to the city. I started texting one of my best friends sharing what my mom said. My friend was in disbelief and asked why my mom would say what she did. I had no idea. I never really know why. But my friend's compassion and empathy quickly unraveled the deep hurt and pain of that moment. I started to cry, continuous streams of tears rolling down my face as I sat amongst strangers on Bart. I didn't try to hide them. So many thoughts ran through my mind as I touched my heart with my hand and held it there until the tears stopped.

You failed at your marriage. 

She said it like it was the ultimate truth. Like there was no other possibility. Like there was no space for something in between. She said it with such deep conviction and clarity. Like she knew something I didn't.

When my mom says something like that in the way that she does, what internal will is needed for me to believe otherwise? What ocean of compassion is needed for me to understand her words are about her own humanity, having nothing to do with me? What mental discipline is needed for me to recall my own truth in all of this? That I am not a failure. That I gave my marriage everything I had.

I call these moments Mom Daggers. 

I have lived my whole life with these daggers. But this is the first time I feel awake to it. I feel the dagger alive in my body. Ice cold, sharp, heavy, big, a stinging pain.

I see my mind searching for answers, trying to make sense of my mom.

What unresolved wounds are you projecting on to me, Ma? 
What life failures have you internalized, Ma? 
What loving tenderness was missing for you growing up, Ma? 
What is behind your feelings of inadequacy and unworthiness, Ma? 

I want so badly to understand my mom's humanity. I want so badly to see her more clearly. I want so badly for her to know how much her words hurt me.

I want so badly to tell her,

Ma, your pain is real and deserves healing. 
Ma, you are not a failure. 
Ma, you are soft and tender at the core of your being. 
Ma, you are enough and worthy of loving. 

But I have to accept the possibility that I may never fully understand her. That even if I get to tell her these things, because of the deeply buried traumas in her life, she may never receive them. She may never believe them.

And this is where my greatest pain lies. And where my own healing begins.