Dear, Lisa

Dear Lisa,

I would use ‘Mom’, but for the purpose of remaining truthful in this letter I will stick with your name. You are my mother, don’t get me wrong, that fact has never altered in my mind or in life. Even so, I feel it necessary to refer to you as more of a woman than my mother. As a woman, to a woman, I address the distance I have felt between us since I could comprehend the invisible barrier. That sense of disconnection when we speak; when an opinion is given and true understanding is not met; keeps me from addressing you in my heart's letter as my mother.

My foremost memories of you begin with your hair. Bending down over my face, the soft ends tickling my unblemished skin. I felt loved then. Safe, and unconcerned. I struggle to locate those kinds of memories. Most have an overcast and anger and frustration, even in the moments of lightness. But this feeling I remember, which is a rare thing. My memories of my infant years are few and far between, most relegated to a feeling, or an orange sun set on a bedroom wall. So this one I hold on my heart, and a hope and a fear, that that feeling will never return.

The next would be standing in our bathroom in the last house I lived in with you, and realizing I did not know you. I saw you for only a handful of minutes a day. Polite remarks were our only conversation. It scared me then, the distance I felt. That you were more of a phantom in a doorway than a present mother. I do not blame you for that, it’s simply an honest memory. My maturity has borne many things, and the hardship of being a working mother with a wholly unhelpful husband is one of them. I understand that. I can almost forgive it.

Then came the back breaker. The day you never replied and I came to think you no longer cared. I started coming home late, it’s true. I was sixteen, my mental health was on the decline, and I was desperate for the comfort of my friends. This might be something I will look back on and start to understand your feelings, but not quite yet. I yanked on the chain, I will admit, because the yawning pit of unhappiness only felt less terrifying when I was further from my boundaries. Nights of stolen liquor in water bottles followed. You know about that now, I’m sure, it’s pretty cliche. But you never asked. Never seemed to pay attention. Then came the night you locked the door. I know you did it on purpose, and I do not have to ask why.

The last memory I can contribute is the one you could be expecting to hear about in this letter. The night you decided you were finished with me. When you told me to leave, as my younger brother stood in his bedroom doorway, watching it all happen. I can still feel the tightness of my heart, and the venom in the words I spat at you while you drove with me in the passenger seat. (I rarely ever got to sit in your passenger seat.) I remember no matter how heavy I swung my blade, it broke no barrier. Neither did it meet any resistance. There was no regret. No hesitation. My flailing resulted in nothing, and even now I question whether you even remember how much I hated you in those minutes you drove me out of our house. It wasn’t the last time I hated you, but it was what snapped the single cord I felt tying me to being your child.

Once the drive ended, and I mourned the loss of that assumed love, the series of hurtful memories did not end. It continued in unanswered texts, ignored calls, and a bedroom's worth of memories mercilessly tossed in the trash. Do you remember when I brought up my hot pink cast, covered with the signatures of my classmates and friends? You hadn’t at first, until I asked where it could be. You said, ‘It must have gone with the rest of it’. Gone. Along with everything else.

There are others. Memories where the wall between became a little less opaque. When you were candid with me about your divorce, and subsequent problems with him paying child support for my brother. You were driving, and it was a rare occasion I was granted the passenger seat. Maybe those were the only times I felt let in, like less of a child and more of a person. Or when you read a book I liked and started a rare conversation about how I felt and what I loved.

The only other time I felt I understood was recently. When I had a rare opportunity to talk candidly to your son about his relationship with you, and he revealed your comment, that the connection you have with me is very different. I could not quite gage the tone. Whether you felt remorse, or animosity. Still, it was weirdly validating to know that it was something you thought about. That it was not just me who’s being haunted by us. It gives me hope that one day we will look each other in the eye, and realize we are running out of time to mend what has been broken for so long.

Now I am not a mother. Not even close. The thought of another human being having to rely on me for their happiness and health scares me to death. I do not think I have to explain why. You have never asked me about children, could it be that you know what you have instilled in me? Could it be an unspoken agreement that you approve of my childless decision because you sabotaged me on purpose? Or is the callousness from the car ride still present? Maybe one day I will work up the courage to ask.

This whole letter is a confession, truth be told. It is my reflection on us, on you, and on me. But the true confession, I have to admit, is I hesitate each time I reply to your ‘I love you’ with my own. Because I do not. The words hold no love. I can feel the lie twisted inside them each time I say it. Whether that can ever be changed I cannot yet say. I hope; not for you, but for myself, that one day they could be true. So these thoughts don’t keep my eyes glued to the ceiling at night. But the time has not yet come, my heart still weighs heavy when we hug. I want it to change.

If only my willingness were enough for both of us.