entrusted secret

A phone call.
A confession.
Love and trust.
Guilt and shame.
Admittance.
A secret.

My mother just called and she is in a menacing place right now. I think I've been somewhere near there, but insistently do not attempt to liken my struggles with hers; we all fight our own unique battles. I can empathize well, but refuse to venture that I know what she's going through.

Why me?

Why trust me with her secret? Her embarrassment? Her failing?
Perhaps I am regarded higher than I thought.
Or perhaps I am regarded lower than I thought.
Or perhaps her disclosure has no bearing on how I'm regarded and the only pertinent factor is that I, alone, am her daughter.

Of course she made brief reference to my own personal failings in the past, which she has paid witness to. This may be a strong indicator that she feels I am someone who can relate to her own failings as more than a daughter but as a person.

There were times I wondered if it would ever reach a problematic breaking point.
If she would ever even see that there was a problem. I questioned if there even existed a quandary or if I was the one deceived and overreactional.

Lo, denial is a powerful thing, and sometimes it takes an unfortunate course of events to become aware of the trouble that plagues oneself.

I only hope lessons will be learned and reformation will take place. I've been hoping and praying for that for a long time, now. Her problems - hell, my whole family's problems - have always been my problems and it's a burden I've grown weary of bearing.

I love them all deeply.