I didn't understand. I just felt lonely.

Dear Mom,

We haven’t spoken in a while, save for the short voice messages you would sometimes leave me during moments of clarity. A part of me closes up each time I press “play” and hear your voice. In all honesty, it’s not because I resent you or the sound of your voice—I just don’t know how to sort it with the memory I have of you.

I remember when you left me decades ago. You left without a word, without a warning. Now looking back, I’m sure there were warnings, but as a child I didn’t see them. My childhood with you was tumultuous, but I didn’t know then. It was the only childhood I knew. I thought it was normal to be alone. I thought it was normal to have a mother who’s everchanging emotions as defining as each season would dictate how I perceived love and life. But I didn’t understand. I just felt lonely.

Some days you would spend by my side and hold me in arms. I remember feeling loved. Every time I was with you and noticed that you were happy, I wanted time to stop. It was moments like those that made me wish I never grew up. Other days you wouldn’t speak to anyone. Not even to me. You wouldn’t look at me like I was your daughter. You would scream and yell at the thoughts that festered in your mind and manipulated your emotions. I knew there were pills that you were supposed to take, but I’m not sure if you always took them. I knew that you were, as my father had put it, “depressed.” But I didn’t understand. I just felt lonely.

And then you left me. But you didn’t just leave me. The people who posed as your loved ones took advantage of your condition. They let you sue my family for an inordinate amount of money. When my father said that he would have to sell our home if he couldn’t make the payment, your family simply nodded and said that would be fine. And you just sat there and never said a word.

For years after, I felt like I should resent you. I wasn’t sure what part you had in what appeared to be an attempt to destroy my family and all that was left of my childhood, but it felt like betrayal. I would then live most of my life accepting that I never had a mother, and that I didn’t need you. I didn't want you in my life anyways. It was a way for me to be in control of the emptiness that I felt after you left. But I didn’t understand. I just felt lonely.

Then one day you tried to reconnect with me. All I felt was confusion. I felt frustrated. I felt anger. I couldn’t see in front of me; I was blindsided by the fact that you would dare try to speak with me after distancing yourself from my life for so long.

Throughout the years I’ve felt different forms of pain, succumbed to the darkness, come out of it anew, fallen into and out of it over and over again. I remember when I felt like I would do anything just to get rid of the pain. I’ve learned that some days are good simply because it was spent outside of my bed, and that was enough. I’ve learned that emotions, as much as we try to reason through them, just needed to be felt. I’ve learned that sometimes among the haze there can be great moments of clarity that shouldn’t be dismissed but instead savored. And these moments can easily fade away just as quickly as they appear.

Resentment. Anger. There was no point. I didn’t understand then. I just feel lonely.

If I could somehow break through your pain and your darkness, I want you to hear and take to heart my biggest confession to you:

Mom, I love you. I wish you were always in my life. Whether that simply be in the form of the short voice recordings that you send me, I’ll cherish every moment that you're here.

Love,

Your Daughter