An Open Letter To My Mom

Dear mom,

When I was born, you kept it no secret that I was not planned. That I was not a good pregnancy, and very few people were happy to know I was coming. My father, who has since turned his life around, was the least happy of all. You knew, though, that I was meant to be here for some wild reason, so you fought to have me. Doctors said one of us wouldn’t make it. There were times when abortion was almost forced upon you, but you kept going, and now here I am today. As I grew up, most of my time was spent sitting quietly and watching things go on around me, and I am guilty of doing this in my adulthood. Watching my own life as though I’m on the outside, as though it’s just a television show I watch for entertainment and can shut off at any time. I watched you and my father fight; I watched you and my sister fight; I watched you seemingly try to take on the world. Occasionally you would look over and see me, your small daughter, watching all of these horrible things take place, and I would wonder why you never once turned my head away.

I was five when my sister was sent away. I was also five when the social workers showed up at my school and pulled me out of class, asking me about what type of violence was going on at home. I didn’t tell them, though. I knew to keep my mouth shut because I knew if the truth was to get out then I would have to live somewhere else, with people who might not allow me to be terrified of the world. You wondered why I was so quiet, so afraid, so anxious at such a young age. You would say, “You haven’t been through anything to make you this way!”, and now I understand, you’re right, in your mind, you were the only one who went through any of it.

I resented you for years for this, in my mind. Not once have I ever told you how I felt or about the times I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs about all the things that I witnessed. The things that traumatized me and made me afraid of every person on the street. No, I could never. I could never expose you to what you allowed your little girl to go through. Instead, I continued to walk on eggshells, walk past your bedroom, and wonder what kind of mood you were going to be in today, or if it was one of those days that the mood changed with the hour. How was the alcohol going to hit you tonight? Would you be happy? Would you be sad and cry for hours, lock yourself in your room? Or would you be angry and throw plates at us again?

I lived my life walking on eggshells because of you. Now I continue to live in the background, occasionally stepping into the sun just to see what it feels like before withdrawing again because fear takes over and removes all color from my world. My therapist tells me I have PTSD from all the things that I experienced while growing up, she also tells me if I don’t start turning my world around, I’m going to end up just like you. The funny thing about her saying that to me is, mom, I’m already just like you.

You’ve brought wonderful things into my life, and you’ve taught me things that make me see the world in such a different light than others. You taught me how to grow a garden, and how to recycle to help save the planet. You taught me how precious animals are and how important appreciating every single soul is, no matter what they look like on their physical shell. You taught me how to eat healthily, how to read and write, how to build things, and how to cook eggs just right. You taught me some fabulous things, and I will always be grateful for those. You also taught me some things that are a lot less beautiful.

You taught me to drink because alcohol makes reality easier to deal with, and you taught me to hide during the times it makes things harder. You taught me to smoke, but to hide it so nobody else would know, because you also taught me that your appearance matters, so make sure you always put on a show. You taught me to hide, to keep the blinds closed so that no one knows I’m home. I’m afraid of the world mom, and I am self-destructive in my ways of trying to deal with it. I know you love me so much mom, and you tried the best that you could to make me nothing like you, but mom, here I am all grown up and just like you.

We’re both adults now, and mom, I’m tired. I try to be what you need, to lift you and keep you from giving up when I’m so close to that line myself. Between you and dad I don’t know what to do, you rely on me too much mom and that’s my confession to you. I love you so much, but your cries are heavy. It’s all weighing down now, I’m close to being drowned, I’m trying to hold you up mom, but my eyelids are sagging. Your hurtful words followed by loving smiles, it’s enough to make me feel like I’m insane. I suppose that’s what it is though, to live in this chaos, I guess I understand now mom because I’m just like you.