In My Child’s Therapy Session, I Confronted My Resentment

We perched together on the small, plush loveseat, the room devoid of windows and softly lit by table lamps instead of harsh overhead fluorescents. Bookshelves stood against the wall opposite us, her desk against another, and her well-worn armchair was positioned close to the loveseat. Emily’s warmth and acceptance created a soothing atmosphere, and her evident care for Lucas brought solace to my troubled heart.

I had expected challenging therapy sessions and was ready for them. Healing often requires facing pain, and I was willing to embrace that discomfort if it meant paving the way to healing and restoration for our future. Emily had a unique ability to ask probing questions while honoring individual experiences.

Though we had only a few sessions under our belts—some phone calls and a handful of emails—she grasped our family dynamics, and for the first time, I felt truly understood. Residential treatment for my son’s ongoing mental health struggles had already shown promise. She leaned back comfortably in her chair and gently inquired whether I recognized how my frustration had translated into resentment toward Lucas.

A familiar lump formed in my throat as I felt him shift beside me. I nodded slightly, tears threatening to spill from my eyes. I had uttered that painful word before in safe spaces—among friends who cared for both me and Lucas—experiencing the release that came with admitting my feelings, mingled with shame and relief. Yet, I had never heard another mother express such sentiments about her child, but the truth was undeniable: resentment had taken root within me.

Before I nodded, I briefly considered denying it—wanting to shield him from further hurt and rejection. What mother wishes her child to know she feels resentment? However, I was there to confront the reality of our relationship, not to hide behind the idealized dreams of what I had hoped for.

I longed to clarify that my resentment was directed not at him as a person, but at the illness, the ‘disorder,’ and the life circumstances that had hurt us all. Inside, I was frantic to reassure him that my resentment was not aimed at his heart or spirit. But in that moment, I felt silenced. I understood that trying to qualify my emotions might diminish his own. To plead for understanding would invalidate his feelings. So, I let the painful silence linger, weighed down by my own failures and fears, anxious to see hurt flash in his beautiful eyes. Shame crept into my thoughts, and the broken mother within me craved to give it power, as if accepting shame could somehow atone for the hurt I had inflicted on my teenage son.

He remained silent. I held my breath, bracing for anger or withdrawal, preparing for him to say bitterly, “I knew it.” Yet, no words emerged. His body relaxed, and the moment was immense, dreadful, simple, and oddly anticlimactic all at once.

He already knew. He had sensed it through the years when my frustration had overwhelmed me, and I lashed out with anger and disdain. He had felt it when I turned away as he excitedly shared his latest obsessions, cringing with fear that another unfulfilled desire might unleash his overwhelming meltdowns.

As I sat beside him in silence, those moments stretched out like an eternity. I could see his physical tension ease as I nodded in shame, and my intuition told me he was grateful for my honesty. My willingness to acknowledge my painful feelings restored a measure of dignity for him. It gave him confidence and reassurance that he hadn’t merely imagined the distance between us.

So, I sat there, hands tightly clasped in my lap, facing forward. I willed my tears to stop to honor him in that moment. A few tears rolled down my flushed cheeks, but I refrained from wiping them away, not wanting to disrupt the energy in the room. I wouldn’t let my own sobs hijack his chance to process the work we’d done during our session.

I stared at the bookcase, watching the titles of books on mental illness swirl together into a colorful blur of mocking self-help. I heard him take a deep breath, stretching his legs in preparation to stand up as our session came to a close. Still, I remained seated, filled with a torrent of emotions—anger at the illness that had damaged our relationship, frustration with myself for not being stronger or more compassionate, grief over yet another drive home without him, and an overwhelming desire to pull him close, to erase every hurt he had ever felt with the beat of my heart against his.

But the session had come to an end. It was time for him to return to the unit while I headed home. I turned to him, and he embraced me.

“I love you, Mom,” he said, his voice familiar and comforting, reminding me that wounded relationships don’t equate to severed bonds. I knew he understood I loved him in return.

“I love you too, buddy,” I whispered into his neck before stepping back to straighten my clothes, wipe my face, and follow the therapist through the maze of sterile halls and heavy locked doors.

As we walked in silence, I recognized that the damage from my resentment had already been done. In that moment, the most valuable gift I could offer him was acknowledging my hurtful feelings; and in doing so, revealing my own shame and brokenness, I felt it. We were beginning to move toward healing.

For further insights on navigating the complexities of parenting, check out another one of our blog posts, which provides valuable perspectives on family dynamics.

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Summary:

In a poignant therapy session with her son, the author confronts her own feelings of resentment, acknowledging the pain and struggles that have affected their relationship. Through this admission, she finds a path toward healing and understanding, ultimately realizing that expressing these difficult emotions can restore dignity and connection.