Waiting

Momma,

You told me once that I was wild when I was in your womb, kicking and punching all hours. Awake and ready for the world. Then you told me it scared you. You thought I would be an out-of-control child and one you needed to break. It’s difficult for me to fathom those months you spent staring at your growing belly, afraid. You were scared of me, a tiny baby not yet born, still one with you. You thought I would be too big. Too much. Too alive. And that life, full of energy, scared you enough to want to smash it. Before you met me, you labeled me something that needed correcting and took aggressive measures to shut me down and control me. You were partly successful. You should be proud of yourself, the hard work you put into breaking me almost worked.

It hurt to grow up in your care. Emotions ran on a one-way street in our house. You sent all your raw thoughts and feelings my way, and I swallowed yours along with mine. I said please and thank you and asked for more. More attention. More twisted and abusive love. I was the adult for both of us, held captive in your child-sized marionette. You spun poisonous tales about the dangers of a woman’s body. The evil that lies inside of us. How we must protect men from ourselves. You built a hatred and self-loathing inside me so deep that I will never fully trust myself.

You tried to build mediocrity in me. You never encouraged me to challenge myself or push myself further. Safety is comfortable and without risk or reward. It was the easy road you pulled me towards. I fought against it as much as I could, asking for something to grow and love and build, but you kept pushing me towards average and filling my head with doubts and constantly telling me I wouldn’t make it if I tried, so it's better not to jump and fail. You pushed me towards baby-making and housewife, saying the job market is better suited for men. It’s ironic since I scared you before birth.

Yet, for some reason, older and wiser, I still tried. Despite my inside poison, I groveled for your attention. I worked to fix you, help you. I built you up as you tore me down. Sometimes, I could still hear your words like a pulse, strong and steady in my head late at night. The words you speak when I look to you for praise when I have a new job or hobby. When I am excited about life.

When are you going to give up?

Never, Momma. Never.

That is what you built along with hatred. Tenacity. I hadn’t given up on you, on us. I hadn’t given up on the hope of what we could one day be. Friends. Mother and Daughter. It’s how you raised me to be a survivor. I grew up cold and calculating. I did what I had to, and I always will. I wasn’t going to give up on myself.

I can’t remember my last words to you. I didn’t know they would be the last. It bothered me, but only because I didn’t know if I should be proud of them or not. Did I tell you off, finally, or did I give in as I typically would?

This last fight changed me. I gave you a few weeks to call and tell me to apologize. Or rather, bully me into forgiving you. Weeks turned to a month and then two, and Christmas came and went. I was stunned you stayed quiet. You didn’t want me at Christmas. Every Christmas, fight or not, I was there. For weeks, plans were made about food, drinks, and gifts. But that Christmas, the phone didn’t ring. You didn’t call to tell me how to feel.

I saw your game, then. Stupidly too late, I knew what you were doing. You wanted me to call. You wanted me to fix it. And I didn’t. I left it up to you to be the adult. To apologize for how you spoke to me. It was the first time I had waited on you this long. Usually, I caved and called if you hadn’t. Every time our emotions would arise, I would fix it for us.

It has been so long since you last spoke to me; the mist of your magic and control is fading. I saw you. I saw what you were doing. I saw your neglect and recognized that I had mistaken it all this time as attention. Your grooming had left me. You left me. So I gave up. I had no more fight left. No more apologies for your actions. I was deflated. I was tired. I had nothing left to give you.

New Year passed. My birthday, my anniversary. No phone call, no text. I gave you the same treatment, and the year slid by. Sad and Lonely. But strangely healing. The silence was a balm I needed. As Thanksgiving came and went, I thought, that’s it. We had nothing left to say. I prepared for another Christmas without my Mom.

I received the box in the mail the week of Christmas. At first, I thought of throwing it away. It hurt to look at it. I handed my husband the scissors and asked him to open it for me. He gingerly slid the blade along the tape, and I held my breath.

I admit I was hopeful. I couldn’t even hold it back. I wanted you. Badly. I could envision him holding up a card with a cabin in the woods with glittery snow and a random bible verse below it. And inside, your neat printing would tell me you missed me. You wanted me to come to see you. You needed me. You were proud I never gave up. The words would be followed with love, Mom. I wanted that note. After all of this time of no communication, no phone calls, no invitation home. You sent a box. I didn’t care what was inside. I wanted your words. An olive branch. A chance. Hope.

The tape popped free, and a tiny, perfectly wrapped present sat atop dirty bubble wrap with a note that it was for my husband. I passed the gift to him, and we paused to open it, savoring our first communication to stretch it out. Handmade beard oil. It smells like old dishwater, but the thought was there and sweet. It softened me to you further. It was time. We will push through our differences. This time you will see me as me, an adult, a friend. Want me. I shifted the bubble wrap around, and it floated up and out, revealing a child’s Christmas toy. I was confused at first. I lifted the reindeer from the box. He was sitting on a little scooter, making him even appear even more juvenile. I didn’t get it right away. Then as the fog cleared, your message hit me hard in the chest. The air pushed out from my lungs in a long wheeze.

“It’s a child's toy,” I told my husband. Realization hit him, and he slid a hand across his mouth, searching for something, anything, to say. A toy for a child. It's how you see me. You even included batteries like I was too small and stupid to have some in my home. I absently put them in. The toy lit up, dancing, singing, and driving around the room, smacking my calves as it spun. The tag on the ear lets me know it's for children 3+, and you paid $24.99. A bit expensive for such a cruel display. On the other side, you wrote my name, on the off chance I would think it wasn’t for me. It has been a while since I’ve seen your writing, and it hurt more that the only thing you did write was our names.

I dug through the empty box once more, looking for a note, card, or even a giant middle finger scrawled across the bottom. I still had hope, even in light of your passive-aggressive behavior. Your message was clear, but maybe you had a soft spot left for me. No. Nothing. I turned off the toy, walked it to the street, and dropped it in the bin waiting for pick up.

Don’t you miss me? What kind of mother throws her child away? What sort of mother lets so much time slip by? I was once a part of your body, and you tossed me aside as an adult over childish games and rules that no longer apply to a grown woman. You played games with my mind my entire life. And now, you can’t apologize. Or even say a simple come back to me.

Your unspoken words screamed through and broke up the last of your spell. I give up, Mom. I give up. I told you once that I didn’t want children. But I never told you why. I don’t want a child to look at me how I see you. I couldn’t bear it.

It’s strange now to say these words to you. I never thought I would be able to get them out. I’m not sure it feels better. It only reminds me how broken we are this time.

Love,

Your Daughter