“Here—read this.”
My mother shoved a religious tract from her fundamentalist religion into my hand. I stared at it, dumbfounded, reluctantly accepting the pamphlet. I didn’t want it, but honestly, I didn’t believe I had a choice.
Her tracts carried more than words. They reminded me of how, as a child, the church used Bible verses to justify my parents beating me. They stirred memories of a church that turned a blind eye to my father’s sexual abuse while accusing me of being possessed by a demon.
Still, my mother kept giving them to me. Each one left me feeling more discouraged and depressed than the last. I didn’t know what to do.
One afternoon, I was pulling weeds in my garden. I noticed creeping tendrils of St. Augustine grass winding themselves around the stems of my beloved peonies, choking the plant to death. I had pulled up several runners weeks earlier, but the thick turfgrass had returned. It was spreading over the flowers and killing them.
I didn't know how to set healthy boundaries
Watching the grass overtake my peonies reminded me of my childhood. My parents made decisions about my life without my input, without my consent. I wasn’t allowed to ask questions or offer an opinion. Over time, I learned to be silent. I learned to be helpless. I learned to allow life to happen to me rather than participate in it. I learned to be a victim. I absorbed others’ feelings and beliefs until I no longer knew where I ended and the other person began. I changed constantly because I didn’t know how to set healthy boundaries.
To save my flowers, I made a boundary—a border of rocks—around the perimeter of my flower bed. These stones formed a clear edge, keeping the grass out and giving the peonies room to thrive and bloom.
I wondered if a boundary could help with my mother. I decided to practicing setting boundaries in my life. I stopped putting others’ needs above my own and started paying attention to what felt acceptable and what did not. I listened to my feelings and noticed areas where my needs were being ignored or violated. When I felt uncomfortable, resentful or anxious, I recognized that a boundary was needed. I learned to say no—and mean it—reminding myself that I am responsible only for myself and accountable only for my actions.
Knowing my boundaries means knowing my limits.
My mother had given me the religious tracts without discussing it with me or asking whether I wanted them. Setting healthy boundaries means I have choices. I can choose to accept the tracts—or not. I decide what is best for me, not others. Knowing my boundaries means knowing my limits. I take care of myself by honoring them.
Setting boundaries with family members can be difficult. The next time my mother offered me a tract, I pushed her hand away, mumbling that I didn’t want it. My eighty-six-year-old mother clenched her jaw, grinding her teeth. Furious, she drew her hand back, preparing to slap me. She reacted to my new boundary with old behaviors and actions.
I stepped back, turned and walked away. Setting boundaries for my emotional and psychological well-being is necessary and worthwhile, even if it brings out another’s anger. Resistance often arises when a boundary disrupts an unhealthy pattern. By establishing this boundary, I acted with courage. I claimed responsibility for my own happiness and emotional well-being.
The stone border around my flower bed protects the peonies and allows them to flourish. The boundaries in my life protect me from unacceptable behavior and help me establish healthy relationships. When I maintain healthy boundaries, confidence, hope and self-respect blossom in my life—just like the bright fuchsia peonies blooming in my flower bed.
3 responses to “Borders of Hope”
I am smiling inside & out. Your journey helps inform mine greatly & I appreciate you conveying your heart through words❣️
Your story reminded me of my own boundary issues with my parents. I like how you pushed her hand away. Her reaction tells me everything about the similarities of some parents. Keep writing, Sallie!
Wonderful piece, and I don’t understand why anyone would ban one of your stories. You write with sensitivity and show with only a few details the abuse you suffered. Write on Sallie! xo Joan