(no subject)
Dear mom,
There are so many things I have wanted to tell you over the years, so many questions I have needed to ask, so many things I have needed to hear you say. But I can't, and I won't. The only thing that is left for me to do is to stop letting all the things I hold inside eating me alive, to write down the words I cannot speak, the words you refuse to let me say.
I know you think you raised your children as best as you could, and perhaps you did. Maybe the childhood you gave us was really all you had to offer, and if it was, I'm trying to not blame you. But now, as I am old enough to understand, old enough to look back without as much pain as I used to have inside me, I know you could have done so much more. You could have left dad sooner, when he first started to show signs of violence against you. You could have left him when his violent behavior became not only targeted at you, but at us kids as well. You could have tried to change things sooner. But I can't blame you for that. I know what it's like to live in an abusive relationship and how hard it is to leave. The fact that you did leave, eventually, shows how strong you were, shows there was a time when you knew how to do the right thing. Nothing our father did was your fault, and I don't want you to think I'd blame you for any of it. You protected us from him, risking your own well-being and life in the process, and I could never thank you enough for that.
I don't know what changed after that. I don't know how you went from a protective and loving parent to an emotional wreck, taking your anger, pain and hatred out on your daughters. It didn't happen overnight, that much I know, and I can't help but be bitter about how you didn't see yourself changing, how you never felt like you needed to take a step back and reevaluate what you were doing. Maybe the years you spent with dad were too much for you. If they were, I understand. You lived under constant fear, and that changes a person. I should know; I spent most of my childhood fearing you.
I can't remember the point where things changed, where we went from being at least somewhat happy, finally safe and free of dad to sad, miserable people, depressed and torn, unable to reach out to those around us. I just remember feeling like you hated us, feeling like you wanted nothing to do with us. And you didn't, you told that to us so many times. Reminded us of how you never wanted to have children, how we ruined your free and happy life. More often than once, more often than I can even remember, you told us you were going to leave us. You would go to work in the morning and never return, leaving us to survive on our own. I was no older than seven then, do you remember?
We moved out of the bad neighborhood, out of the country you so hated so you could be closer to your own mother. You told us things would be better now, that we would have a better education and we would be free of having to fear dad would ever find us again. Yes, we were free of him, but stuck with you, living a life that only got worse. We had our own rooms but no privacy: you would go through our things, read our diaries, threaten to throw us out and give us away if we didn't obey you. This is when you became violent, but by then that was nothing compared to the emotional abuse you put us through every day.
You were there for me when I was bullied in school, but only because you wanted the teachers and my principal to stop pestering you about how often I was absent. You told me it was my fault I was being bullied, that the few friends I'd managed to make and the clothes I wore were to blame. That if I was normal like all the other kids I wouldn't be such an easy target. You bullied me at home, just like I was bullied at school, and I had nowhere to go, nowhere to run and hide but my self-injury and anorexia. And you knew about both, of course. You saw me fade away, read about it in my diary, found my razor blades under my mattress. Do you remember what you did then? Nothing. You tossed out the razor blades but did nothing else. You never tried to help me and chose to simply ignore the hollow shell I'd become. Do you remember when you found me sitting on my bed, shredding my bottom lip with a pair of scissors? Do you remember telling me I was nothing but a pain, how your life would be so much easier if you didn't have to deal with my issues? Do you remember telling me you wished I'd never been born, and do you remember when I tried to correct the mistake my birth had been? I almost succeeded in killing myself and you didn't even care, not even when I came back home and slipped further into my depression.
I can never speak about laying in my bed at night, trying to decide if it was myself or you that needed to die. At the age of fourteen I spent my nights thinking about the kitchen knives and how easy it would be to sneak up on you as you slept, slitting your throat and releasing us of your tyranny. I was too weak, too scared of you, and all I could do was take the hate I had for you out on myself.
I hope you remember the last time you raised your fist at me, and how I told you I'd kill you if you ever laid a hand on me again. I hope you remember and know how serious I was, how close I came to actually doing it. I hope you remember how you drove us out of your house, out of your life, not just turning us against you but against each other with your lies and manipulative nature. The only thing we kids had was each other, and you took that away from us, too. You took away my childhood, my siblings, my family. You took away everything I had and forced me to find a way to live on, to survive, without no one to rely on.
Guess what, mom. I think after everything you did, after everything you put your children through, we grew up alright. We got through our teenage years, submitting to addictions, abusive relationships, eating disorders, everything a child should not go through. Not on their own. We didn't let any of those things crush us, just like we didn't let you crush us. We found our way through the darkness that was our childhood, finding our own paths to stumble on, alone and without anyone to help us up if we fell. We did that, all on our own. We raised ourselves and healed our wounds as best as we could, and we ended up just fine. We have scars, mental and physical, and we have lost things we can never get back: our mother, our childhood, our sense of security. Our family. But no matter how much you lied to keep us apart we got past that, too, and have been trying to heal our relationships with each other in the past years. You tried to take my siblings from me but you failed.
You've been trying to come back into my life, manipulating me again, trying to make me feel sorry for you. You say you miss your children and love them, that you want them back in your life. You say you can't believe we've abandoned you the way we have, after everything you've done for us. I think you're scared, mom. You're getting old and sick and you've found yourself completely alone, and you're afraid of dying without anyone holding your hand. I understand; once I was dying, too, and I was utterly and completely alone and unloved. Maybe it's because of that, but I've been trying to be there for you, calling in at least once a week, making sure you're okay. Coming over when you seem like you can't manage on your own. Helping you when you need help. It's helped me to see you as a person, not as the monster I remember you being, and little by little I've begun to learn to forgive.
I can't forget, however, not when I still carry the scars. Not when you don't even remember what you did, not when you refuse to speak about nothing but the good times you've created in your own head. Not when I still see glimpses of who you were whenever I do something you're not pleased with. Not when you are still you, no matter how you pretend to be something else. But that's alright, too. I shouldn't forget the years that made me who I am, that taught me I'm capable of taking care of myself, that made me see just how strong I can be when it's needed of me. I'm being strong again now, watching you slowly fade away, your illness eating you up little by little. And I will be strong when I have to bury you. Because if I won't, no one else will. You've driven everyone else away, but I'm still here, even if I don't always know why or how.
I'm sorry, mom. I'm sorry you're in pain and afraid, and I'm sorry you're unhappy. I'm sorry if I wasn't the child you wanted, and I'm sorry you were never the mom I needed. I'm sorry, but it doesn't change anything. You are still the most painful of all the wounds I've ever had to learn to let heal.
I wish I could say I love you,
your daughter.