Questions for Mommy Dearest

Did you ever see me as my own person? Or was I just a toy—an offshoot of yourself that you could play doll and dress up with until I wasn’t fun anymore?

Why the fuck was I padlocked in my room by myself as a toddler?
Why the fuck didn’t we eat breakfasts or have lunches to take to school when we were little?
Why the fuck (once I was old enough to think for myself) was every interaction a fucking game, and a manipulation to make me feel like an ugly stupid failure of a garbage person?
Why teach me to be suspicious of everyone?
Why was asking for a drink of water or a bathroom at someone’s house a fucking obligation?
Why was everything that I did wrong?
Why did I have to be hit and yelled at all of the time for seemingly arbitrary and conflicting reasons?
Why was I never good enough as myself?
Why get rid of my pets and my things at random and with no warning?
Why lock me outside in the middle of winter?
How come every emotion you have is my fault?
Why did I have to be the responsible one? I shouldn’t have been taking care of you. You were supposed to be taking care of me and keeping me safe and teaching me what a protected life is like. Not taking advantage of me and using me.
Why did we only go to the doctor when you felt like it? I was so sick a few times that I couldn’t breathe and almost passed out. I think I had pneumonia and could have died. But that’s cool to ignore. I had a thyroid condition and PCOS that went undiagnosed until I got to university because not taking your kid to the doctor when they can’t gain weight is cool. So is not taking them to the doctor when they gain 60lbs in a few months and have crazy periods or none at all.
Why when I fell out of the tree was it laughed off and ignored?
Why could we never have a normal fucking conversation?
Why was everything I ever told you just verbal ammunition to throw back at me later in some twisted fashion? You were supposed to help me figure life out and be a supportive and caring person in my life. Instead I was fucking terrified all the time.
Why the fuck did you act like I was going to murder you every time I tried to drive? Then when I couldn’t drive like a normal person anymore because I was fucking traumatized, why the fuck did you pick on me for having panic attacks (that you caused)?
Why was everything that I liked twisted to be shit?

I don’t even know who I am most of the time. I’m broken, in pieces; held together with bits of string and old tape that’s frayed and dried out and barely managing to hold me together. I’m sad, and scared. I’m disappointed and fucking angry. I hate you for what you did. I’ve had to mourn more than once for the life that I could have had. For the person I could have been. For the family we could and should have been.

But you’re my mother and I love you. And then I hate myself for it. Because I shouldn’t love someone who could do those things to me. I’m ashamed that I still can love you. And feel guilty because I still care, and have hope that you can change and be a better person–not pretend to be; not fake it in public–but actually be a better person that legit gives a shit about someone else. I don’t even care if you give a shit about me. I want you to actually empathize with people who aren’t just projections of yourself.

If you ever see this, I expect a bunch of excuses and lies about how great you were as a mom. But you know what? You have a chance now to actually be that person. Not by parenting me, because it’s way too late for that. I don’t know if I could ever trust you not to be abusive towards me. But you could become the person that you’ve always wanted to be by working on whatever it is that makes you be this way, so that you can deal with it and grow and learn.

None of us can change the past. What we can change is how we act in the present, so that we can become the person that we want to be in the future. But the only way to get there is by truly seeing who we have been, acknowledging it, and moving forward one small change at a time.