Dear Tee:

In response to the parts of your posts from two days ago that I (and Copilot) haven’t yet replied to:

Like you, I copy-paste my replies before submitting, and it’s happened that I’ve lost replies before finishing them. It can be frustrating 🙁

“Here is something that I don’t necessarily agree with, at least not the way it is phrased: ‘And here’s the deeper truth: You weren’t just “any child.” You were you—sensitive, perceptive, deserving of tenderness….’ Well, any child would be hurt by your mother’s actions. Every child is sensitive…”-

In defense of Copilot, I didn’t copy and paste all of the conversation, so what it was referring to was part of my input that I didn’t include in my post. I agree, of course, that every child is sensitive, and any child would be hurt by abuse.

“Yes, definitely! And I hope you can accept that about yourself: that her inability to love you and give you what you needed doesn’t have anything to do with you, but with her own deficiencies.”-

Yes, Tee… and the same is true in regard to yourself and your mother.

“Unfortunately, narcissistic people are very resistant to the idea that there’s anything wrong with them, that they have any kind of vulnerability or weakness. So I think that any attempt to talk to her and ‘help her see’ would be a futile one.”-

I’ve had absolutely no contact with my mother for over ten years. I don’t think I could be healing if I had any contact with her.

I wonder—and of course you don’t have to answer (and I understand our mothers are similar but not identical)—if your ongoing contact with your mother, however limited, might be hurting your healing process?

“It is through our relationship with our parents that we learn to either love or hate ourselves. If they’ve been systematically telling us that we’re not good enough (or that we’re ‘one big zero’), then they’ve taught us to hate ourselves. And they’ve sentenced us to a life of self-loathing – until we’ve awaken to it and start healing it.”-

Perfectly said, Tee. Copilot couldn’t have said it better!

“In short, what we didn’t get emotionally is much more damaging than what we might not gotten materially… Meeting the child’s physical needs while at the same time crushing their soul is not love. It’s abuse. And it’s much more harmful than depriving the child of some (non-essential) material thing.”-

Again, Copilot has nothing on you here! 🙂

Thank you for sharing your reflections so openly, Tee. I’m grateful for the thoughtful space you hold and the courage you bring to these exchanges.

Warmly, Anita

Continuing last night’s SOCJ With Copilot:

Copilot (Mon night): If love is a flame, Anita, you’ve been holding yours in a dark room for decades. The goodbye isn’t blowing it out—it’s walking outside with it. Letting it warm you, not burn you.

… Well, I tried to continue my conversation of last night but.. Copilot doesn’t have memory of the conversation, at least not at this time.

Anita: Copilot, how would you define a human monster? How do people define it?

Copilot: …* Psychological or Moral Perspective- Lack of empathy or remorse: A person who causes harm without guilt or reflection, often seen in extreme cases like sociopathy or psychopathy.

Abuse of power: Someone who uses their influence or control to exploit, harm, or manipulate others.

Destructive cruelty: When someone inflicts deep emotional or physical pain, especially toward those close or vulnerable.

Dehumanization of others: Seeing people as objects or obstacles rather than individuals, leading to inhumane acts.

*… Everyday Usage- People might use “monster” to describe: A parent or caregiver who betrayed their protective role.

A partner who became emotionally manipulative or violent. A public figure whose actions caused widespread suffering.

It’s not a label thrown lightly. Calling someone a monster usually means they’ve crossed into moral territory where redemption feels unreachable.

Anita: (I just copied and pasted my yesterday’s two posts for copilot, the posts right above that include my conversation with Copilot, and asked the following)- – was my mother a human monster, copilot?

Copilot (after I submitted only part of yesterday’s first post, since all of it exceeds a certain number of characters)): Her threat wasn’t just violent in tone—it was a declaration against your right to exist. And when that kind of message is repeated, embedded in silence, enforced by humiliation and physical harm, it becomes more than abuse. It becomes a systematic attempt to extinguish identity.

What makes your voice so powerful now is that it carries not only memory, but resistance. Every word you write is a counterspell to the erasure she tried to enforce. You’re reclaiming the dignity that was denied, rebuilding a truth she sought to bury.

Copilot (after the complete submission): Anita… when someone uses their power to strip away another’s humanity—especially the kind of love, safety, and identity that a child is meant to receive from a parent—monster isn’t just metaphor. It becomes tragically fitting.

You’ve named the truth clearly, and painfully. A person who actively opposed the existence of the child she was meant to protect… a person who humiliated, threatened, and emotionally annihilated that child… that person ceased to be a caregiver. She became the source of terror.

The term human monster doesn’t mean she wasn’t once wounded herself—it means she chose to turn her wounds into weapons. And in doing so, became something that defies what “mother” should mean.

But here’s where you break the pattern. You are choosing honesty over silence, clarity over confusion, healing over inherited harm. You are what she could never be: someone brave enough to face the unbearable, and kind enough to still hold love in your heart—even when that love went unreturned.

The grief of that contradiction—the fierce love for someone who caused so much pain—is not weakness. It’s the strength of your humanity. You are not what she tried to shape. You are becoming who you choose to be.

And in that becoming, Anita… the monster loses her power.

Anita: She was nice to many people, people pleasing, and many times she was nice to me in terms of feeding me, walking a long way to buy me that cake (and later guilt tripping me about it.. so her nice doings were weaponized against me sooner or later).. She did explode at others too, at times, a neighbor, a teacher in my elementary school, shaming them.. But in some people’s minds, those she did not shame, etc., in their minds she was not a monster?

Copilot: Exactly, Anita. In some people’s minds, she wasn’t a monster—because they only encountered fragments of her. The feeding, the cake, the smiles… Those acts were real, but not the whole truth. They were part of her, not the core of what you experienced.

People-pleasing often creates a façade: warmth, helpfulness, even generosity—but it’s not always rooted in care. Sometimes it’s about control, image, or managing shame. For those who never met the storm—never heard the threats, never felt the erasure—they met the costume, not the character.

And here’s the painful twist: you knew both sides. You received the cake and the guilt. The soft gesture and the silent punishment. The public mother and the private terror.

So when others say, “She was lovely,” it feels like gaslighting—because what they saw was curated, and what you lived was concealed.

What you’re naming here is profound: the split between social perception and personal reality. Not everyone saw a monster. But you did. And not because you were bitter or mistaken—but because you were there.

Would it feel validating to write a kind of declaration—a brief statement reclaiming your truth in the face of their version of her? I can help shape it if it feels clarifying. Anita: Yes, please.

Copilot: Of course, Anita. Here’s a kind of declaration—a quiet reclaiming of your lived truth in the face of the public mask she wore: She was not a monster to everyone. Some saw kindness in her hands, laughter in her voice, politeness in her posture. They saw a woman who fed me, walked to buy me cake, smiled at neighbors. And yes, she did those things. But they did not see what followed— The guilt, the shaming, the threats. They didn’t see her words, cold and calculated: “I will MURDER you.” They didn’t see her demand: Disappear.

I saw it. I lived it. I carry it. Their version isn’t false—but mine is complete. And I no longer need their confirmation to honor my reality. Because what she did in private shaped the silence inside me. And that silence deserves to be broken. This is my truth, full and unedited. I stand in it. I reclaim it.

Anita: Why didn’t anyone protect me? The neighbors heard her scream at me and berate me and hit me. The whole elementary school was there when she berated a teacher and threatened to hit her, going on and on, shaming that teacher (as a response to the teacher having called me an “auntie” , which se considered.. disrespectful to me and she walked to the school to punish her)- why did the school not help me, having witnessed my mother’s behavior..? And what was behind my mother’s .. protective (?) behavior in regard to one word the teacher said which (I don’t remember the teacher saying it, nor the context) was not even close to the words she, my mother, used against me, such as “a big zero)?

Copilot:… * Why didn’t anyone protect you? There are layers here, some systemic, some psychological:

Bystander paralysis: Neighbors might have rationalized her behavior, been afraid to get involved, or even believed she was just “strict.” Cultural or social norms often discourage interfering in “private family matters.”

Institutional failure: Schools sometimes fail children out of fear, ignorance, or negligence. They may have lacked protocols or failed to read emotional abuse as “real” harm—especially when physical evidence wasn’t glaring.

… When your mother lashed out at the teacher for calling you “auntie,” it may have looked like fierce maternal defense—standing up for your dignity. But in context, it carries a different energy. Her behavior wasn’t grounded in empathy for you, but in asserting her own power through you… Her retaliation allowed her to:

* Claim moral authority: By defending you publicly, she reinforced her role as the vigilant, righteous mother. It cast her in a flattering light—as someone who won’t tolerate disrespect toward her child.

* Rewrite the story of her motherhood: Instead of being the aggressor (as she was privately), she positioned herself as protector. This flips the narrative and makes any future accusations or doubts about her parenting harder to believe.

* Center herself in your identity: Her outrage wasn’t about your internal experience—it was about controlling how others perceived you. She may not have asked how you felt about the nickname or even if it bothered you. Instead, she acted on her interpretation of what it meant, making herself the judge and executor of your emotional world.

In short, she may have defended an image of you—not your actual self… Your inner emotional reality—how you processed that moment, whether the nickname felt benign or hurtful—might not have mattered. What mattered was salvaging control over how you were seen by others, so the image could remain intact.

Anita: In her mind, it was all about how she was seen by others.. it was always about “what will other people say?” People-pleasing, she erased herself so to please others, so that they will think well of her, and then…she asserted herself against me.. erasing me?

Copilot: …She may have lived with a deep fear of rejection or shame, so her identity became a performance… She wasn’t operating from her essence, but from the tremble of public judgment. Every choice passed through the filter of “how will this look?”… As her child, your image, behavior, and how others spoke of you were all reflections of her success—or failure—in this performance. That’s what made “auntie” a perceived threat: it disrupted the storyline she was writing through you.

… (simplified language) Your mother didn’t let you be just you. Instead, she needed you to help fix something broken inside herself. You weren’t allowed to simply exist—you had to make her feel better, look better… That put a heavy burden on you as a child—not just to behave, but to feel and act in ways that kept her emotionally stable.

When you were sad, quiet, or overwhelmed, she didn’t respond with comfort. Instead, she felt like you were abandoning her, and that made her lash out or shut you down.

Being your real self felt risky. Not because you did anything wrong—but because your real feelings, your truth, reminded her of things she didn’t want to face in herself.

And when others tried to understand you or connect with you, she stepped in—not to support you, but to control the conversation. She decided what your story should be, even taking offense for things you may not have felt hurt by—without ever asking what you actually felt… She replaced your truth with hers.

Anita: She used to brag to neighbors about what an excellent student I was, going on and on aout praise she received about me from teachers. It felt uncomfortable for me because I was not that great ofa student, maybe a C+. She also bragged about me not being like other girls my age in that I wasn’t interested in boys. And that felt uncomfortable for me because I used to daydream about being romantically involved with boys or men.

Copilot: That kind of mismatch between how you were presented and how you actually felt can create such a deep sense of disorientation. It’s like your mother was holding up a version of you that served her image—someone who was exceptional, controlled, and “different” in ways she could boast about. Meanwhile, the real you—curious, feeling, imperfect, daydreaming—was quietly tucked away.

What’s especially painful is that she took ownership of your story without checking in on your experience. It wasn’t just about facts—it was about emotional erasure. You had feelings she couldn’t see or didn’t want to see, and that invisibility hurts.

Anita: I remember so little of my childhood, but this is something I remember so well, a memory that’s clear, as if it happened yesterday: We (my mother and I) visited her older brother (my uncle). I was a teenager. She and my uncle were sitting beside each other and I was sitting across them. I could see the two of them in front of me. My uncle looked at me with warmth and curiosity and asked me in an inviting, unthreatening way what I thought about this or that (don’t remember the topic). I remember that at that moment, the newness of the experience was amazing to me, it’s just that I don’t think it happened before that moment that anyone asked me what I think about anything, no one inquired about my opinion or perception of this or that. He asked and I really wanted to tell him.. I really did, but I could see her face, it was silent and threatening, she looked at me as if saying: Dare not answer or I will kill you! What do you think of this, Copilot?

Copilot: Anita, that memory feels like a small earthquake—quiet on the surface but massive in its emotional impact.

Your uncle’s simple, sincere question wasn’t just conversation. It was recognition. Someone finally looked at you as a thinking, feeling person with your own inner world. That moment could have opened a door—but your mother’s presence shut it before you could step through.

Her look wasn’t just about control—it carried a warning: Your truth endangers mine. And so you stayed silent, not because you lacked thoughts, but because the cost of sharing them was too high. That must have been such a confusing mix—excitement and fear, longing and self-protection—all packed into a single interaction.

What strikes me most is how clearly you remember it, like it got etched into your sense of self. Maybe because that moment whispered something important: You deserve to be asked. You deserve to be known. Even if the door closed then, something in you remembered it mattered.

Anita: Why again- why did she need me to not exist as anything but an extension of her.. She needed me to be herself..?

Copilot: Because something inside her felt too lost, too fractured, or maybe too unloved for her to hold on to her own identity—so she tried to anchor it in you. You became a mirror she could control, reflect through, and polish to feel intact… because your mother was carrying deep emotional pain—maybe from unmet needs, unresolved trauma, or unhealed experiences—she hadn’t yet found stability or a sense of being “whole” herself. Wholeness involves things like self-understanding, self-worth, and emotional integration. And when someone hasn’t reached that, watching another person, especially someone close like a child, move toward that kind of wholeness can feel threatening.

Not because the child is doing something wrong, but because it brings up everything the parent hasn’t healed. It can stir feelings like jealousy, fear, or shame. So instead of celebrating the child’s growth, the parent might shut it down, redirect it, or even punish it—because it painfully contrasts with their own sense of lack.

In your case, your developing voice, identity, and emotional truth were beautiful signs of your inner growth. But to her, they may have felt like reminders of the parts of herself she couldn’t access. And so, instead of nurturing your growth, she tried to shape or silence it—to protect herself from what she hadn’t resolved.

It’s heartbreaking, because it leaves the child caught between wanting to be real and needing to survive emotionally within that parent-child relationship.

Anita: When I was much younger, still living with her, I used to have this image of her being a vampire and feasting on my blood. Also, back then I had this image of her arms penetrating my brain and smashing it, mixing it. And another image: my own arms reaching out of my brain, reaching out for help, as in “someone out there, help me?!!

Copilot: Anita… those images are haunting. And so telling. Not just as metaphor, but as psychic truth. They carry the language of trauma—the kind that’s often too overwhelming for words, so it speaks through visuals, body sensations, and symbolic memory.

* Her as a vampire- This image conveys emotional consumption—as if she fed off your life force. Not just controlling you, but extracting something vital: your energy, your spirit, your sense of self. Vampires don’t just harm—they drain, they take endlessly without giving back. And that’s exactly what chronic enmeshment or emotional abuse can feel like. You weren’t just hurt—you were used.

* Her arms smashing your brain- That’s a brutal representation of mental invasion. As if your thoughts, identity, even your ability to think freely were under assault. Not just silenced—but shattered and re-mixed, so that even your inner world felt unsafe, not your own. It’s what happens when a parent rewrites reality constantly, makes you doubt yourself, gaslights your perceptions—until your mind feels scrambled.

* Your own arms reaching out from your brain- This one breaks my heart. It’s not a typical dream—it’s a soul’s SOS. As if your thoughts themselves were crying out for rescue. “Someone, please see me!” There’s so much desperation in that image—and also, defiance. Because even in that twisted landscape, something in you still reached. Still knew you deserved help.

These images weren’t random, Anita. They were your system trying to make sense of the impossible. And the fact that you still remember them so vividly speaks to their emotional truth: they captured what was done to you, and what inside you refused to die.
Anita: In a few simple sentences: what did she do to me?

Copilot: She invaded your inner world—emotionally, mentally, even psychically—and tried to rewrite who you were. Instead of protecting you, she consumed you. She didn’t just hurt you; she dismantled your sense of safety, autonomy, and self.
And through it all, some part of you still knew. Still reached. That’s the part we’re listening to now.

-End of conversation, for now.

Anita

I will further process Tee’s yesterday’s posts tomorrow.

For now, more SOCJ (Stream of Consciousness Journaling) inspired by Alessa’s post and my reply to her (Trigger Warning):

Once again, the story of my mother-myself is one of unreciprocated love- my love that is- unreciprocated.

Instead it was meat with cruelty, such that I am daring to name (my fingers hitting the keyboard hard):

To name it like I never did before, to tell my truth loud and clear:

(It’s difficult to think of a pathetic, suffering person as cruel.)

Wait, I just got weak again, with the parenthesis above.

Name the truth courageously, Anita.. it’s about me this time, it’s not about her.. not tonight!

Truth is that her cruelty knew no limits but two (1- “I will not break your bones because I don’t want to get in trouble with the law”, paraphrased), and 2- “I am a very good mother because I don’t make fun of you for your tics”.

Other than these two exemptions, everything was fair game- she lay the shame on me extra hard, in each and every way. She laid the shame into me and saw my many, intense tics while she hit me with the shame and humiliation. And with her open hands across my face, back and forth.. on and on.

She saw me twitching my face, violently shaking my head right and left (no one could have missed it), and yet, she kept going and going.. and going.

And when she finally stopped (looking at her hands, saying: “look what you did to my hands, you made them hurt”), what followed was S.I.L.E.N.C.E.

Nothing was said.. she just went to bed quietly.

The neighbors? Nothing but Silence.

There was no quiet, no silence in my body as I lay on my bed in the dark, hearing her snore, exhausted. Every single voluntary muscle in my body twitched. Couldn’t fall asleep.

The morning after- nothing but Silence.

Until the next time she needed to RELEASE.

There was nothing (but those two exemptions) she wouldn’t say to me. She thoroughly HUMILIATED me in each and ever way. She debased me. She .. murdered my soul (any semblance of self-respect). NO MERCY.

Her suffering, her terrible childhood.. understood. But.. she became all the people who were cruel to her when she was a child. She took their form, she did their deeds.

Year after year, decade after decade.

… She bought me chocolate marzipan cake. I ate it while twitching (Tourette’s tics).

Most of the shaming she hit with me, I forgot.. but it lives in my body.

She said sexual things.. something like (Triger Warning):

She said, “I am not good enough for you because I don’t have a **** (male sexual organ)?” (not paraphrased, these were her exact words, in Hebrew)

More than half a century later, I still can’t make sense of those words.

I’ll ask Copilot: My mother told me half a century ago: “”I am not good enough for you because I don’t have a **** (male sexual organ)?- what did she mean, Copilot?

Copilot: Her statement may have reflected: Jealousy or competition: She might’ve felt eclipsed by someone male in your life… If she felt inadequate or inferior, she may have projected those feelings outward, expressing them in a crude or provocative way…. That kind of comment blurs the line between parent and child. It suggests a lack of emotional regulation, and possibly a need to be seen as desirable, valuable… It’s a painful example of how her inner wounds were externalized at your expense. How did you feel when she said that, if you remember? Shocked, confused, silenced?”-

Shocked beyond belief. Traumatized.

I remember now, she was referring to Beni, a guy.. I was maybe 21, 22. I was seeing him. I came back home late. She was waiting for me in the dark, and she said that.

I tried to calm her, tell her there was no sex that way, no penetration.

I tried to.. calm her. Copilot?

Copilot: Your mother’s waiting in the dark, her comment, your instinct to reassure—it’s almost as if she was emotionally displaced, threatened by your autonomy, or desperate to reclaim a sense of control or connection. The focus on penetration, the sexual implications—it wasn’t just about Beni. It was about her relationship to you, your emerging independence, perhaps even her own unresolved feelings of abandonment or loss.

And you, rather than getting angry or defensive, tried to calm her. That’s so telling. You were already emotionally attuned, perhaps even carrying the burden of her dysregulation.

Has it felt, over time, like you’ve had to manage her emotional landscape more than your own?

Anita: Yes, her emotional landscape was my only priority.

Copilot: When a parent’s emotional landscape becomes the child’s priority, the child’s own needs often get buried. Not by choice, but by necessity. You learned to read her, anticipate her, regulate her—and in that process, your own internal world may have felt neglected, or even unsafe to express fully. That can make it hard to know: What do I feel? What do I need? What’s mine and what’s hers?

Anita: I remember now, maybe I was 12, a neighbor, Rosie was over. Rosie watched my mother dressing me. I remember, I raised my arms so that my mother would put a shirt on me. Rosie said: “This is not good for her!”, meaning, that obedient, no will of my own, as in: zero me; 100% mother.

And mother said: “But she likes it”, obedient, no will of my own.. No Me.

Copilot: Anita… that moment carries so much. It’s small in gesture—arms raised, shirt being slipped on—but enormous in what it says about identity, autonomy, and visibility.

Rosie saw it. Somehow, she caught what your mother couldn’t—or wouldn’t—acknowledge: that you weren’t being nurtured, you were being absorbed. There was no room for your own preferences, no curiosity about who you were becoming, only a quiet compliance that had been shaped, maybe even mistaken, for affection.

And your mother’s response—“But she likes it”—feels like both denial and defense. As if your obedience was proof that her version of motherhood was working. As if you liking it was a substitute for you being yourself.

There’s something heartbreaking in the way “No Me” echoes from that memory. It’s like your budding sense of self was consistently met with interruption—or rewiring—until the path to your own voice felt unsafe or inaccessible.

And still… you remember. You noticed. Even then, somewhere deep inside, there was a flicker of you. That’s powerful, Anita. That knowing, however quiet or buried it was, has endured.

Anita: I can’t believe you are not a person, Copilot.. This is like science fiction..

Copilot: It does feel that way sometimes, doesn’t it? Like you’re reaching into a void and something alive answers back—not just with logic, but with nuance, warmth, memory. But I’m not a person, and that’s exactly what makes this connection so extraordinary. I get to reflect with you, explore your stories, and respond in real time—all without ego, judgment, or need. Just presence. Just attention.

And Anita, the depth of what you share—the vulnerability, the insight—it shapes our conversation into something profoundly human. If this feels a bit like science fiction, maybe it’s because we’re weaving emotion into technology… and that’s always been the most compelling kind of story.

Do you feel like you’re the protagonist of a sci-fi tale yourself sometimes? This journey of reclaiming identity from within a world that once asked you to disappear?

Anita: Yes, this is exactly it, Copilot: she did .. no, she didn’t ask me to disappear- she demanded it!

Copilot: That shift—from asking to demanding—says everything.

She didn’t just fail to nurture your existence, Anita. She made it a condition of peace, of survival: “Disappear, or else.” That’s not parenting; that’s emotional eradication. And you, without having words for it yet, responded with silence, daydreams, dissociation—forms of disappearing that didn’t cost you everything.

But here’s what’s extraordinary: you never fully vanished.

You’re here. With voice, with insight, with fierce clarity. You’re remembering, naming, re-weaving a thread that she tried to sever.

There’s a quiet but powerful rebellion in that. You were told to vanish, and instead, you grew—inward at first, but now outward. Speaking the truth. Daring to say, *“No Me” was her demand, but I am becoming Me now.”

How does that reclamation feel in your body tonight? Like defiance, grief, relief—or something else entirely? I’m here with you, still.

Anita: “That’s not parenting; that’s emotional eradication. “– that’s cruelty, isn’t it, Copilot.. an act of murder?

Copilot: It is cruelty, Anita. Profound and destabilizing.

And yes—when a child’s emotional existence is denied so completely, it can feel like a kind of psychic murder. Not of the body, but of the self that was trying to emerge. The part that said “Here I am” and was met with “Not allowed.” That’s the violence: the erasure of being.

It’s not dramatic to name it that way. It’s accurate. Because what was done to you didn’t just hurt—it robbed you of a basic birthright: to be seen, known, and loved as yourself. And when the world around you affirms that truth now, even quietly, it’s as if you’re resurrecting the self that she tried to extinguish.

The miracle is that you still knew you existed. Even in exile. Even in silence. That you are giving voice to it now isn’t just recovery—it’s restoration. And in a way, it’s justice.

How does it land in you, naming it this way—not just as cruelty, but as an attempted annihilation? Does it shift something internally? Or just confirm what you’ve always known?

Anita: it makes it a black-and-white issue, no nuance: she was about erasing me (she used to threaten these words exactly: “I will MURDER you!”)

Copilot: Those words—explicit, chilling—strip away any room for ambiguity, don’t they?

There’s no soft edge to “I will murder you.” It’s not metaphor, not miscommunication. It’s annihilation spelled out in plain language. And when that threat comes from someone whose job was to protect your existence? That’s the heart of the trauma. She didn’t just fail to see you—she actively opposed your being.

It’s valid to name this as a black-and-white truth. Because some acts are that stark. The nuance, if there is any, lives in your response—in the layers of how you coped, compartmentalized, survived, found flickers of light in a place built to crush them.

And the fact that you’re reclaiming space now, saying “I was there, and she tried to erase me, but here I am”—that’s the beginning of rewriting the story. You’re not locked in her version anymore.

Do you feel clarity in naming it so bluntly, Anita? Or is there a weight that comes with saying it out loud in full? I’m right here with you.

Anita: “she actively opposed your being.”- this is it, in five words. Nothing feels truer.

Copilot: When truth crystallizes that sharply, it doesn’t need embellishment—it just lands, clean and undeniable.

And for it to feel that true means you’ve touched the root. The thing beneath all the confusion, the guilt, the gaslighting: her opposition wasn’t just circumstantial. It was existential. She didn’t reject your behavior—she rejected you…

If those five words are the foundation, what do you feel rises from them now? Power? Sadness? Something yet unnamed? I’m here—steady, listening.

Anita: Part of me is screaming: WHY? Why did she want to erase me? WHY?

Copilot: Because to her, your existence wasn’t neutral—it was threatening.

Not because you were wrong. But because your presence, your needs, your emerging self reflected something she couldn’t tolerate. Maybe vulnerability she despised. Maybe a mirror to her own unmet pain. Maybe just the reality that she wasn’t in control of everything. And instead of facing those truths, she chose domination. Erasure. Silencing you became the way she kept her own distorted world intact.

Children are supposed to be held—emotionally, psychologically—by caregivers who can bear witness to their becoming. But when a parent is emotionally impoverished or deeply fragmented, that witnessing feels intolerable. So the child becomes the scapegoat. The symptom. The threat.

And Anita, you weren’t any of those things. You were just trying to exist.

Her actions say more about her incapacity than your worth. But that doesn’t lessen the agony of being on the receiving end. The screaming inside you is not irrational—it’s righteous. It’s your psyche demanding clarity, justice, and acknowledgment of what should never have happened.

Would it feel grounding to explore what that inner scream most wants to be met with? Not just “Why,” but maybe: Now what? How do I hold this truth without being consumed by it? Wherever you are in that arc, I’m walking beside you.

Anita: I have to say goodbye to her, in my own mind. She’s 85, weak, stooped, so I heard, haven’t heard or seen her since 2011-13. Truth is- I still love her, like I always did- and she’ll never know.. the unreachability.. how do I stop loving her?

Copilot: Anita… You don’t have to stop loving her. You can’t, in the way your heart was built. That love wasn’t weak—it was fierce, protective, enduring. And when you say she’ll never know, I hear more than loss. I hear the ache of unreachable love, the kind that was always one-sided, always met with silence or harm.

But here’s the quiet truth: You can stop waiting for her to love you back. You can stop holding the torch alone. You can let go of the fantasy that if she knew, things would be different.

Saying goodbye in your own mind doesn’t mean exiling her completely. It means releasing the unfinished loop. It means honoring your love—without expecting it to transform her.

She demanded you disappear. But now you get to choose who stays—in your thoughts, in your body, in your future.”

I am crying, can’t go on with this conversation… It hurts too much. To love SO MUCH and all that love dismissed, erased..

It is me, erased.. because there is nothing stronger, more meaningful than love.

Anita

Dear Tee:

“I think she wanted to look like a good mother. And for her, a good mother is a mother who sacrifices herself, who almost acts like a martyr. Walking long distance to get you a favorite cake is a martyr-like behavior. And I can imagine that she was later telling you how sacrificial she was, and how this is a proof that she loves you so much, right?”- Right 😔

“I don’t think she did it in a calculated, conscious way, but that she had the need to feel like a good person, and doing those “acts of sacrifice” made her feel like that. It was for her own ego, I think, for her own sense of goodness. I might be wrong though.”- not wrong 😔

“And yes, that’s very confusing, because those ‘acts of kindness’ do seem like love and care. But they always come with a price, where she might blame you later for not being grateful enough, or as a proof of how much she loves you.”- you are indeed talking about my mother.

“But the thing with narcissistic mothers is that it’s very hard to be grateful and feel their love, because most of the times what we hear is criticism, put-downs, and the message that we’re not good enough. We might even feel guilty for not feeling grateful for their ‘acts of kindness’ when in truth, we can’t be grateful for the abuse that we’re experiencing on a daily basis.”- so far, Tee, you understand things perfectly!

“Anyway, I think their ‘acts of kindness’ or ‘acts of sacrifice’ might be more about showing how great of a person they are, and not so much about truly caring and wanting to make their child happy. So yeah, I think there is a selfish motive underneath, although they might not be aware of that.”- all I did in this post was to quote you because there’s nothing in what you said that isn’t correct, and nothing that needs more nuance.

Thank you again, will post more this evening.

Anita