A Salamander's Confession

Mother,

I debated for a long time whether this was even worth writing, and I’m fully aware that as you read this your face will transform with your self-righteous laughter, as if it’s the height of hubris for me to appeal to you in any way. You, the mighty mountain of motherhood. The one who sacrificed all her happiness for the health and well-being of her children. The one who put her entire life on hold to ensure we wanted for nothing. And then there’s me, the Lucifer to your Michael. The fallen one. The swamp dweller. The one still crawling around on her belly while you walk on your own two feet.

You made something of yourself, and I could never compare. After all, how could anyone compare the sun, the perpetual light in everyone’s life, with the sad, strange creature more comfortable in the darkness and mud?

I sometimes wonder if you hoped that withholding your light would make me yearn for it more? Or perhaps you hoped if you kept me in the dark long enough, I would lose my eyes and thus no longer be able to see the disparity in how you doled out your love. A cave salamander doesn’t glance at the sky and wish it could see the clouds. It has no idea they even exist.

But the dark has a funny way of shaping you. Loss can turn into something more.

It’s been years since we’ve spoken now. Years of darkness and silence. Years where I know you’ve looked at me in my little pool, saw me swimming happily without eyes, and wondered to yourself how such a thing could be possible. How could I dare to live, to thrive, in a world without you? Why have I not called you, clearly lamenting the loss of our relationship and groveling for you to take me back?

I want you to know the answer is simple, and a confession I need to lay at your feet.

The reason I can happily swim in my cave is because I don’t think about you. There has not been a moment over the last three years where I wished for you to be by my side. Not when I went in for surgery. Not when Nanny or Cole died. Not when Dad went in for his transplants. It would be cruel and false to say I celebrated going through those experiences without you, but the truth is that for the first time in my life, I was given the space to grieve and process the gamut of my emotions without needing to hold you up. My pain was real and acknowledged in a way that was entirely new to me. For once, my pain was my own, and not a tool for you to garner more attention. Although, I have to give you some credit. You certainly tried during Nanny’s funeral. Canceling the viewing the night before and rearranging the service so the family viewing hour was after the service was an excellent try.

I wonder if the narcissist in you loved or loathed the extra attention my absence earned you?

My gut says probably a bit of both.

I could tell you that there have been a million moments where I missed my grandmothers with enough force it felt like a punch to the stomach, because let’s be honest with each other this once, they were mothers to me when you refused. I could tell you there have been a million times where Dad has said how proud he is of me, or has embarrassed me with how much he bragged about me, because it reminded this salamander of how sunlight should feel. I could tell you there have been a million times where I looked at Tim and thought about how lucky I was to have him in my life despite the wedges you tried to instill.

Despite all your machinations, and everything I had to sacrifice to appease you—my eyes, my self-worth, my innocence—I am truly happy in my cave. We have built a flourishing ecosystem with no need of sunlight. So, in a way that will no doubt feed your ego, I’m thankful to you. Take this in the most egotistical way if it pleases you, but none of this would be possible without you.

Best Wishes,

No Longer Your Salamander