When love and annoyance coexist
This is the kind of text that doesn't come from the head. It comes from an inner pressure. A need to get something out that would otherwise stay in the body.
To understand. To not carry it all alone. To put words to something that doesn't really want to be words.
Or just to be honest.
There's a particular kind of tiredness that can't be slept away. Not even after a whole night. Not even after several days.
It's not in the body in the way you might think. It's deeper. Like a constant hum beneath the surface.
And sometimes you only notice it when you're in the middle of a laugh.
"Why are you laughing so much, Nina?"
It's one of those sentences that shouldn't hurt. But it does. Not for what it says, but for all it carries with it.
I was there yesterday. My dad's 70th birthday. People around the table. Laughter. Food. Voices. An attempt at something that's supposed to be normal.
And my mother.
My mother who is so sick. My mother who is so thin now. My mother who has end-stage COPD. My mother who just found out there's a tumor in her breast again.
My mother who might not have much time left.
And yet.
There, in the midst of it all, she is exactly who she has always been.
That's what's so hard to explain to someone who isn't in it.
That a person can be on the verge of death and at the same time be irritating, controlling, sharp, critical.
That illness does not automatically transform someone into mild, reconciled, gentle.
It doesn't.
And somewhere, without admitting it, I had probably believed it would.
That something would let go. That she would become... kinder.
But no.
Instead:
"My, what a broad back she has." "Keep your feet still." Small comments. Small jabs. Small adjustments to the world around her.
And I know this pattern so well.
It starts small. I ignore it. I think: not now. Not today. It's a birthday. She's sick. Be bigger.
But it builds up.
And somewhere there's a limit. An invisible, inner line.
And when it's crossed...
it happens.
I respond. Not even harshly. Just enough to make a point.
And she replies:
"Mimöschen."
A German word. In diminutive form. Like a flower that folds its leaves at the slightest touch. That's what I was, according to her.
The word hangs in the air. A little too light. A little too quick. A little too familiar.
And there I am again, in that familiar mixture of:
guilt and irritation.
It's the most confusing combination of all.
Because if I were just angry, it would be easier.
If I were just sad, it would also be clearer.
But this?
To be both at the same time?
To feel:
"That wasn't okay"
and at the same time:
"But she's sick... I should be more patient."
It pulls in two directions.
And in the midst of all this, another thought came to me.
One that didn't come from my head.
But from something deeper.
"I want her to go in peace."
That thought scared me at first.
Because what does that really mean?
That I'm giving up? That I'm letting her go? That I'm not fighting?
But the more I sat with it, the more I understood:
it's not resignation.
It's love in a different form.
Because wanting someone to go in peace is not the same as wanting them to disappear.
It's not wanting them to suffer. Neither physically. Nor in that inner resistance that some people carry their whole lives.
My mother has always been strong.
But not in that gentle way.
More in the way that needs to be in control, needs to instruct, needs to adjust the world, needs to have the last word...
to feel secure in it.
And now that her body is failing her, that doesn't disappear.
It actually becomes clearer.
I'm also noticing something in myself.
How my own development – what I've learned over the years through therapy, through spiritual work, through trying to understand myself
is being tested for real once again.
At the kitchen table. In small comments. In glances.
It's easy to feel conscious when no one is pushing your buttons.
It's something else entirely to be so when every nerve in your body reacts.
I've understood one thing very clearly in the past few days:
this is no longer about changing her.
That race is run.
Not because it's hopeless. But because that's not where the focus needs to be.
The focus is elsewhere now.
With me.
In a way that actually makes it possible to stay.
Because the truth is:
I can't be there if I break down every time.
I can't be present if I'm filled with irritation.
I can't carry love if I'm also carrying too much unresolved reaction.
So something in me is adjusting.
Noticeably.
I'm starting to see her even more clearly.
As a human being.
With her patterns. Her fear. Her history.
And I'm starting to see myself more clearly too.
How quickly I can still go into defense when the pressure becomes too intense, too often, at a pace I can't keep up with. How much of it isn't just about now, but about our entire relationship.
That doesn't mean I have to accept everything.
That's important to say.
Because this is a fine line.
Understanding someone doesn't mean you should take everything.
I'm now practicing something that's harder than speaking up.
To not engage at all.
Not to respond to every comment from her. Not to try to correct, explain, win.
It sounds simple.
It's not.
Because the body wants something else.
It wants to react. It wants to speak up. It wants to be seen.
But sometimes strength is to say less.
That doesn't mean I always succeed.
Yesterday I didn't.
And that's okay too.
There's another thing that has become clear.
Something practical, almost brutally concrete.
I live two hours away.
It's not possible to just "drop by".
Every time I go there, it's a journey.
And that changes everything.
It means I can't be there all the time.
And it means that each visit needs to have a framework.
Otherwise, it won't work.
I wish it were simpler.
That I could just be there all the time. That it was just beautiful. That we just held hands and said what had never been said.
But reality looks different.
It is:
raw, human, sometimes ugly and sometimes warm. Sometimes all at once.
And that's where something real can emerge.
In what actually is.
I don't know exactly what this time will look like.
I don't know how much time we have left.
I don't know how it will end.
But I know one thing.
I don't want to leave this with:
only irritation, only guilt.
I want to leave it with:
honesty, presence, and as much love as can actually fit into what is.
To sit silently beside her without saying anything at all.
To leave earlier to be able to come back again.
Not to respond even though everything in me wants to.
To actually respond because I'm only human.
All of this is allowed to exist.
And in the midst of all this, I still carry that sentence within me:
"I want her to be able to go in peace."
And if I do this my way – without denying anything, without forcing anything –
then it can come true.
Not just for her.
But for me too.
There are more layers to this that are not immediately apparent.
I am not alone in my experience, even though it sometimes feels that way.
My father is also there. More and more, I notice how something in him has changed. As if a complete picture is slowly falling into place.
After all these years of hard work, responsibility, everyday life – where much just rolled along – he now sees more clearly. Feels more clearly. Reacts more clearly.
And yet he remains. Just like me.
My sister chose a different path. She broke contact years ago. Completely. And she refuses to resume it.
There is something in me that understands that. That can even feel: I could have done the same thing.
I could have opted out.
But it's as if that's not an option in my body, in my emotions.
I don't know exactly why. Yet.
But something within me says no. Refusing in the same way that my father won't leave. In the same way that my sister speaks a different language in all of this. A language of distance, of protection, of boundary. And behind that there are also things that are not said here. Layers, events, experiences that shape choices – where the truth never lies with just one person.
Anyway – this language is also true. And perfectly fine.
Before my mother became so ill, one of my spiritual teachers told me that I wouldn't be able to step into my full strength – as long as my mother remained in my life in this way.
She herself had broken with her mother. Completely.
And I heard it. I understood it. A part of me knew there was truth in it.
And yet – and I know it's polarizing, especially within spiritual circles and yes, even within me –
I remain.
© by HerMine’s