The milk clouded into the deep brown, billowing and dissipating until the colors merged, reborn. My father showed me just the way she liked it. Fill the mug nearly to its rim, top it off with milk, and place it on a saucer with a spoon and two packets of Equal.

I take my coffee black with sugar. Milk is not a necessity and is rarely kept in the house. If it is in, and on that rare morning where a splash of milk sounds nice, I find myself captivated by the transformation, suddenly whisked backwards in time to my parents’ kitchen.

This morning I am transfixed — transfixed by childhood memories of wanting to please, of being the thoughtful son, the one that would not become a disappointment — all before a single sip of caffeinated glory. That’s too much so early in the morning, but a sleepless night relieves any significance the regular pulse of sky and birds should have.

Depression has the ability to destroy both self and others. I could not understand this when I was a teenager; I was too young. I was dealing with depression myself at the time, but I did not know how to name it. I thought I was failing in my relationship with God. I thought if I confessed my deficiencies and asked for help, I would be made whole again. “Can I be made clean by this offering of my soul? Can I be made whole again?” Jennifer Knapp sings on her debut album, Kansas — my favorite album at the time of its release.

My mother accused me of being manipulative and mean-spirited. My father accused me of making my mother ill. I didn’t believe it then but hearing those words, repeatedly — for these cycles happened often — does something to a child. This was more than a decade ago. Why are these images flooding back so clearly? Because despite the many changes that time and life and experience generate — this hasn’t changed. After years of my own cycles of denial, blame, acceptance, progress, rinse and repeat, I decided to act. I said I needed a break, a time away. I said it would not be forever, but I did not know how long. I said it at an inconvenient, unexpected time. But when is the right time to say I don’t’ want to see or talk to you anymore. There is none.

My mother wants to know if I still love her. “What did I do to make you hate me so much?” she asks. I tell her I do not hate her. I have told her this countless times and yet she still asks. “I am hurting beyond words,” she always counters. “I thought we were the closest.”

I can’t be that person anymore.

Is it possible to truly love someone and not want them in your life? I do not understand love enough to answer that question fully. I know that up until late this year I did not love myself enough to say, “I need some time away.” I’ve neglected my own self-worth and my own mental health for so long that it felt natural to give all my energy away to those who mishandle it. Because they are family. I cannot do that any longer. Maybe when I learn to love myself in the way that I lacked before, I’ll be able to love my mother in a way that is satisfying and healthy for the both of us. That sounds wrong; it sounds self-destructive. I cannot love her in the way that she wants. Love shouldn’t ask that of anyone, at least not the type of love I want anything to do with.

Like most artists, my art is my therapy. It is my coping mechanism, my way through, my salvation. Writing what cannot be said aloud — for it always comes out jumbled and disheveled — is where I find clarity. I am a devout believer in the capacity personal stories have in building community, solidarity — of connecting others when they feel most isolated and alone. Recently, I wrote a confessional piece that dealt with my reluctance to accept the racism in my familial environment. My mother came across it (for I posted it publicly to my social media accounts) and commented. Ignoring the contents of the blog entirely, she questioned where my “love and compassion has gone.” She said, “I sound so holier than thou,” and asked if “I ever loved anyone ‘unconditionally’ with all their flaws, despite differences of opinion.” She concluded by stating that I must “let go of the past and be thankful for today.”

I know her comments had little to do with the actual subject matter of the particular blog and was a messy reaction to all that has transpired over the last few months — my sudden departure.

I cannot say that I know what love is, not completely. Anyone who makes this claim is lying. However, I can say that my understanding of love — of the abstract notion that it is — deepens every day. I hate the phrase “unconditional love.” I despise it. Yes, growing up in an evangelical environment plays a huge role in this and perhaps it clouds my understanding. I do not believe that God’s love is unconditional — both Testaments are overflowing with conditions. When our friends see that we’re trapped in an emotionally abusive, manipulative relationship — whether romantic, platonic or familial — they try to show us what we cannot see. They advise us to take better care of ourselves and gather the strength to move away from the abusive partner, friend, or family member. I’ve been on both sides. When that person on the other end isn’t a person, but God? How dare we protest. How dare we put our own well-being, our own selfish desires above the needs of the all-powerful, all-seeing, all-knowing God. I left that relationship a long time ago. I left intimate, human relationships like that a long time ago. Until recently, I did not want to admit my family, my parents in particular, were doing the same thing and, if they were anyone else, I’d instinctively step away for my own self-preservation and well-being.

I do not blame my parents or people in my past that have hurt me or let me down — not anymore. I do not harbor resentment against them. In The Fire Next Time, James Baldwin wrote, “To accept one’s past — one’s history — is not the same thing as drowning in it; it is learning how to use it. An invented past can never be used; it cracks and crumbles under the pressures of life like clay in a season of drought.” Ignoring the past is something that I will never do. I embrace it, openly, and examine it frequently from every angle possible. It does not mean I still live there. I tried a re-invented past, but that did not work. I tried forgiving and forgetting as the cliché demands, but that oft-repeated phrase is a dangerous lie. The forgiveness is still there, but I refuse to forget lest I fall again into the same mire of self-inflicted pain and torment.

Jeanette Winterson wrote in Why Be Happy When You Can Be Normal?, “Children do not find fault with their parents until later. In the beginning the love you get is the love that sets.” My parents have always loved me. This is fact; this is truth. Their intention was never to hurt but to help and to love me the only way they knew how. Today, they question whether or not I still love them — if I’m even capable of it. Right now, this is the only way I know how — from a distance.

A/N: Written in early December ’14 for another platform and recently given permission to share it elsewhere. Thanks for reading!

Originally published at www.goodreads.com.