#9 Boundaries? What Boundaries?

 

As we navigate life, trying to squeeze the best out of every day, we are inevitably faced with tough scenarios. My perspective on the world is unique simply because each of us is unique. I view things through a lens that has been shaped by my childhood, the interactions I’ve had in my adult life, and the many good and bad experiences I’ve had along the way. My traumas will be different from yours, and what triggers me might not trigger you.

In psychology, the concept of boundaries is a big point of conversation. Once we have a sense of who we are, what we want and how we can best take care of ourselves, boundaries are formed to help support these things. No one wants to be taken for granted or taken advantage of. We want to be respected and loved. Even when we say we don’t care what others think, we still want to be respected and loved. Wars are started because of a lack of these things. Hatred spreads because of a lack of these things. And our grievances become bigger because of a lack of these things.

I’m a fan of boundaries. It’s a way to help you honour your own sense of self. You determine your boundaries, and then you decide where to set them and how you will uphold them. What is problematic is when other people cannot or will not respect those boundaries.

Years ago, my mother came to visit me. I live in a small, one-bedroom apartment, so the space I offered was limited. It would be tight, but I was happy to host for a little while and catch up with her. When I asked her how long she would be staying with me, however, she said she didn’t know. That was a problem.

You see, I’m someone who needs parameters with which to work, especially when it deals with my limited living space. It’s important for me to understand the bigger picture so that I can, then, work out the details. But despite my asking—somewhat regularly—about her plans during her first month’s stay with me, my mom’s answer was the same: “I don’t know.”

I tried my best to adjust to this unknowingness, but it was tough for me. I had a crazy schedule back then, and I commuted three hours a day for work. It was exhausting. I felt like a zombie most of the time, dragging myself out of bed, trying to fit in a workout in my cramped living room, chatting with my mom, then walking/subway riding/busing to the office and working a ten-hour shift. Then, at 10:00 p.m., I would return home via bus, subway and walking again. When I stepped through the door near midnight, all I wanted was some quiet time to rest and regroup for the next day’s work. Instead, I felt forced to engage in conversation with my mom. To be fair to her, she wasn’t imposing any kind of unreasonable request. She just missed me and wanted to connect. I understood her need, and could appreciate it, but it came at the expense of my own needs.

If energy stores weren’t a big enough challenge, my mom was taking up a lot of physical space in my living room. I had given her full access to my office desk, which she could use for her own purposes. I asked that we share the coffee table, and I then told her that the other table in the room was mine. I didn’t want her to put any of her stuff on that surface. I needed to be able to use it as I saw fit, without having to move her things out of the way or ask that she do so. I made my wishes clear, and she said it wasn’t a problem.

I trusted her word, since I choose to navigate the world by giving people the benefit of the doubt. But, soon, the whole coffee table was covered with her things. It seemed to be spillover from her own desk. I commented a few times about not being able to use the coffee table, and she would move stuff out of the way when I needed to use it.

After a while, I decided not to make a big deal about the 50/50 spilt we had agreed upon since I didn’t use the coffee table that often. But when she started piling her stuff onto my own table, things became problematic. One day, I came home to find that my table was completely covered with paints and drawings. In fact, her desk, my table, the coffee table inside and the table on the balcony were all covered with her things.

I felt pressure build in my chest, the sense of betrayal growing larger and larger. I had spoken to her several times about having my own space in my apartment. I had clearly stated the need to have my table clear of her things. And this was not the first time I’d had to ask her to remove her stuff.

Frustration rang in my tone as I stated once again that she hadn’t complied with my wishes.

Her response: “Oh, it’s not a big deal. Here, I’ll just move them.”

But she didn’t understand what she’d done. It wasn’t really about the physical act of covering my table with her stuff, though it was certainly an annoyance. The issue was the fact that despite my laying clear boundaries, and getting her promise to respect them, she minimized my needs and prioritized her own. Not only was it a breach of trust between us, but it was done in my home and by someone who refused to tell me how long she would be expecting me to host.

I was overcome with helplessness, anger and frustration. I wanted to cry. Why couldn’t she be considerate? I wasn’t asking for that much. Why was I being disrespected in such a way? How could someone who said they loved me treat me like this?

My hurt turned to anger as we engaged in a short argument about the table. She removed her things, but maintained her stance that I was being overly sensitive.

This was a nothing thing, not a big deal. To HER. To me, this lack of respect of my boundaries made me question the kind of love she held for me.

It’s not until years later that I really came to understand on a deeper level that when someone blows past your boundaries it doesn’t necessarily mean they don’t love you. It might, however, mean that they are too self-involved to see past their own needs. Or perhaps, at that time in their lives, they just don’t have the capacity to look beyond themselves.

For more than fifteen years, the relationship I’d had with my mom seemed to revolve more around her and her needs. And though I didn’t think that my boundaries were such big obstacles for her to navigate, the fact that she was so ensconced in her own life might have made it impossible for her to see the value of my needs.

The other point of contention we had, which was finding out when my mother planned to leave, was a drawn out affair. Ironically, I learned about her plans quite accidentally. She had, in fact, discussed dates with her friend in Montreal before telling me, and I found that out during an unrelated conversation with her one day. Again, that sense of betrayal arose in me. It was difficult to reconcile why I had not been the first person to know about a decision that directly affected me. How could she discuss these things with other people first, when I had been asking for weeks?

 

In the end, my mom stayed with me for a total of three months. By then, I was completely frayed at the edges. I recognized in me someone who had become short, grumpy, snappy and just not nice to be around. I didn’t like what I saw. The stay had gone beyond my capacity to maintain a steady sense of calm and compassion. If that wasn’t enough, I also felt guilty about how I treated my mom. After all, she had come to stay with me because she missed me and loved me. I knew that. And, to be fair, we did have some good times together, but the unknowingness of the length of her stay had tested my capabilities. And I had failed.

So, it was with a mix of frustration, anger, guilt but also self-respect that, after she left, I emailed her. If she decided to come visit again, I wrote, I would only be able to host for a maximum of two weeks.

Her reply?

“I understand.”

She didn’t harangue me or try to make me feel guilty. She’s not that kind of person. She doesn’t have a mean bone in her body.

But I felt guilty anyway.

Some might look at that email and believe it was a harsh response to what could be perceived as a somewhat mild disagreement, but my boundaries had been breached repeatedly, and I had come to realize that she may never be able to honour them.

The truth is, you cannot force people to respect your boundaries. You can, however, find ways to honour your own, for your own sanity’s sake.

And that’s what I did. I knew I had to be tougher, less flexible and more straightforward in order to adhere to my own boundaries.

I recognize that writing this email to my mom may have hurt her, but I chose not to have my needs be less important than hers, especially in my own home.

In retrospect, I believe my mom was incapable of understanding my needs at the time. Perhaps she had always been this way and I’d never quite noticed, or perhaps she was in a particularly selfish state of being during those years. Regardless of what was going on in her life, I knew I had to look after myself. I had to show myself some compassion: first for having allowed my boundaries to be breached in such a way, and second for the boundaries themselves. They existed for a reason, and I wanted to remind myself that I still deserved to have them be honoured, if by no one else than me.

I can now look back on that experience with compassion for my mom. Sometimes, we ask things of people that are too much for them to deal with. We can’t truly know their inner workings, what they are dealing with and how they are navigating life. We can only see what they choose to show us and extrapolate from there.

And while I can forgive her and show compassion for her limitations at the time, it does not mean that I want a repeat of those circumstances. It is also okay, when faced with a potentially similar situation, to choose not to engage in the same way. I think that might show compassion for both her and me. Neither of us should have to go through the same tension and discomfort again if it can be avoided.

 

Before deciding to publish this piece, I reached out to my mother to see whether she would be okay with what I’d written. I knew there was a chance she would be hurt and not want to me to write about this, but I have also known her my entire life. She is not a vain person. For all of our moments of challenge, she has always been someone I could be honest with. This is a level of safety she has always provided for me, and I will forever be grateful to her for that.

After she read this story, she asked that we have a conversation, so we popped on a WhatsApp call. She was completely fine with me posting this piece, but, more interestingly and importantly, she wanted to talk about what had happened that year.

“I didn’t understand how hard it was for you,” she said to me.

She admitted that though I had been very clear and straightforward with her, she had been dismissive of my feelings and boundaries. In her mind, at the time, she didn’t see the big deal. She had heard my requests and concerns, but she hadn’t integrated them into her body. Simplistically, my requests had gone in one ear and out the other.

I know my mom didn’t treat me this way deliberately. That was never in question. I didn’t think she was trying to be mean or callous. But she was being dismissive and neglectful of my feelings. We discussed what she had been going through at the time. Her focus, she said—at the end of the day—was just to spend time with me. It didn’t matter to her that the place was cramped and there was little privacy. She was just happy to see me and be around me. And while I can appreciate that, her needs did—in fact—usurp mine. It was an imbalanced time in our relationship.

Reading this piece helped my mother see her visit from my perspective for the first time. Though she hadn’t been able to put herself in my shoes then, I’m grateful that this little bit of writing helped to bridge that gap now, six years later. It was a healing conversation, and I’m grateful for my mother’s open heart. She didn’t let ego rewrite the past. She read, considered, and responded thoughtfully and lovingly.

At last, on this issue, I feel seen, heard and understood by her.

Thank you, Mom. I love you.

The Sri Lankan monk Henepola Gunaratana has said:

When you have learned compassion for yourself, compassion for others is automatic.

Let’s hope that holds true.

Until next time.