I often pause to think about anniversaries of specific dates in my life. Some bring joy and gratitude while others bring sorrow and sadness.

Last Monday was my mother’s birthday. She turned 82. To my knowledge, she continues to be lucid and in relatively good health. She also continues to be unkind and cynical. She was my abuser.

Regardless of whether she thought of me, or took note that I didn’t wish her happy birthday, I remembered it was her birthday, as I do each October 22nd. Unfortunately, she was never willing or able to admit and take responsibility for her abuse of me. I’m talking about the same abuse that led me to the brink of suicide three times, necessitated years and thousands of dollars in therapy, and led to two stints at an eating disorder program due to three types of eating disorders.

How could I celebrate the birth of this monster who routinely stung my soul with her venomous vitriol? I can’t. And I won’t. Her essence is nothing to celebrate. This world would have been better without the hatred and humiliation she so generously spread. Like a wildfire through a forest, she gobbles up her victims, leaving them a tiny fraction of their former being. Charred and fragile, a soul has no feeling of worth or belonging. As the fire spreads so does the undoing of the former soul. Eventually, we have left an empty field of scorched ruin. It takes years and years to regrow a forest. In my case, it took 50 years.

Many strongly feel that to heal from abuse we are required to forgive our abuser. This might work for some. Not for me.

I believe that the very moment our abuser decided to fulfill their sick needs by placing us in their path of destruction and demolition was the very moment our responsibility to forgive them became null and void. Excusing them might work if they decided to take responsibility for their actions, and ask for forgiveness. In my case, my mother blamed me, her victim, and never chose to see the result of her repeated, deplorable actions. She even boasted about them to anyone who would listen. She threatened all family members and friends that if they ever spoke to me again, they would be forever banned from her life.

Someone so evil should never have access to anyone’s heart. My mother's corrosive efforts were no match for most and could eat through a soul like acid through the skin. There was nothing to halt the burning. Oozing fluid seeped from the wound, forming the very scab she relished in tearing away.

You, the reader of this blog post, most likely have your own tales of abuse, anniversaries to regret and healing to accomplish. While healing is ours to claim, many aren’t willing to endure the pain involved in scraping away the layers of scar tissue to get through to the core of our sweet souls. But we all deserve it. Believe me.

I have celebrated 33 years of my five children celebrating my birthday. I know they love and cherish me. That is everything to me. It makes the years of all involved in my healing worthwhile. I had the choice. I could have taken the easy road and taken out the torment of my abuse on my children. But that would never be okay. NEVER could I become my mother.

And so, another October 22nd passes by with silence between me and my mother’s telephone lines. It’s the only way it can be, and that’s okay. We who have been abused must care for ourselves and protect all we have gained in our healing. While I wish I could have had a mother whose birthday was cause for celebration, it wasn’t ever that way. As a mother, I can’t imagine my children rueing the day I was born. As for my mother, I was born to her- and I was born to love her- but thankfully we are now worlds apart.

Guilt wastes room in a heart where love can increasingly flourish. A healing heart grows strong with all the love it can hold.

Today is to be celebrated as the best day to choose to heal from your abuse. It doesn’t need to be a birthday or any particular day. The time we spend on healing is well-worth the happiness found. I wish that for you. I truly do.