Hi Alessa:

“Both your pain and your mother’s pain exist in this world. But her pain doesn’t have to invalidate your pain. It might have been her goal.”-

Like I shared just above, she was histrionic—meaning that whenever she felt the need, she would tell me in great detail and with intense emotion about her very difficult life: from childhood onward, through all the losses and injustices she endured. She’d tell me, crying and wailing, how much she wanted to die (and how she planned to commit suicide), all because of what she went through and how people abused her.

During her long, protracted histrionic episodes—and afterward—my heart would break for her. I was furious at all the people who had taken advantage of her and hurt her. Empathy for her and anger at those people went hand in hand.

At the same time, I wasn’t allowed any empathy of my own, because according to her, my life was good and I had nothing to complain about.

And then… another twist. All the people she had complained about—those who took advantage of her or abused her—I was one of them, according to her. She accused me, at great length, of planning to hurt her feelings and then following through with those alleged plans.

So, on one hand, I grew suspicious of people in general. I couldn’t get close to others, and I couldn’t get close to my mother either. It was a very lonely existence.

Back to the title of this thread: Life Worth Living is one where trust and genuine connection exist. These two things—trust and connection—are what I was deprived of for most of my life.

Thank you, Alessa ❤️ —Anita

SOCJ, tonight, July 29, 2025:

No.. No Nuanced, shades of grey thinking is appropriate to a situation where one party (a mother, in my case), has been about erasing the existence of another (me, daughter).

There’s no shade of grey. It’s clear to me now. There was no love, no love to return.

It’s clear to me now- this woman-person-thing- monster-

Deserves none of my empathy.

In real-life, in my very real life experience-

This- that.. that person, thing, creature has been so very cruel to me, no mercy, no pity…

So many lies, pretenses, masks…

And in all of that.. never a recognition.. only denial, cruelty…

No, no nuanced thinking is appropriate.

Free from the burden of non-applicable nuance, non-appropriate empathy-

Empathy for one’s Eraser (E41’SE, if you will) is.. sickening.

And I don’t want to be sick.. Never wanted to be sick.

Monster-you, may you rest in peace when you are dead, mother. Hopefully you rest in peace tonight, before you are dead.

WHY you had to be AGAINST me.. That’s on you.

Never has been a Mother, in my experience.. an Enemy.

Totally dark here. No birds. An aircraft, loud. So loud.

Back to my mother, with all due respect, truth is.. this, to me, was a creature, a monster of no mercy, no feeling.

No use in trying to humanize you when long before you expelled me out of your body.. you were not about loving me.. You didn’t even know, or care to know what that elusive word meant .. Love.

Anita

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