Where are you? Why can’t I find you anywhere I go? Why do I long for you so much when you’re the last person I even want to think about? Mom, what have you done? I miss you so much but fight myself everyday to hate you. I don’t want to love you. I don’t know how it’s possible, mom, that I can love you so much when I have so much hate for you. I should hate you. Why did you let all those men do horrible things to me? Why did you watch? Why did you help? Mom, why did you walk away? So many times I tell myself that you walked away because you knew that you couldn’t give me what I needed, but is that true? I want to believe that a deeper side of you came out the day you signed your rights away, a more brilliant side of you. Did you cry mom? Did you realize that you would be losing me by signing those papers? Did you think that I would get adopted or that I would run back to you when I turned 18? Mom, remember the times in foster care when I would visit you? Why did you only come with him? Did you love him more than me? Is it your fault that I feel so rejected and so chosen over by everyone? Are you the reason I reject every bit of love thrown my way. Mom, do you really think I’m a cunt? Do you believe that I’m a whore? Why did you take my innocence away? Did you think it would make me a better woman? That when I grew up I could make money the same way you do? Did it ever occur to you that I didn’t like the things you and the bad people were doing? Did you ever think about what you were doing to me? I don’t even date, mom! Is that your fault? I don’t even know who to blame this on…was I supposed to know that was wrong? When I fought, it all just got worse. Did you expect me to stand alone? To raise my voice against theirs, and yours? I couldn’t guide you mom. You were supposed to do that for me, and you didn’t. Mom, I’m supposed to be so angry at you. I feel like I should want to kill you, but I don’t. Something in me pulls me to you more and more everyday. I wonder how you’re doing. I want to make sure that you’re okay….but that’s not my job either! I have grown to know motherhood and I’m barely a child myself. I don’t like being a mom. That I blame on you. Every girl should dream of having children, of getting married, of living a happy prosperous life. Not me mom. I won’t have kids, I refuse. I can’t even be in a 2 ft radius of a guy without feeling discomfort and uneasiness. I can’t have this normal life, because of you. I want to be normal. I strive to be normal. Why couldn’t you just handle the stresses your life threw at you? Why did you give up so young. Every day of my life I feel like giving up, because giving up is easy. Mom, if I give up I know that I will die. My life would be over. I would have nothing to strive for…because without my struggle, I would have no goal to achieve. I would have no wound to heal. I would have no heart to sew. And who would I be then? Why can’t I just hate you? Why do you bring out such fierce desire in me? Desire to achieve something greater than anyone I know. Desire to learn what love is. Desire to go above and beyond drugs and alcohol. Desire to live healthily, happy, and in a state of unconditional love. Mom you inspire me and I hate it. You are my hero and I hate you. But you are my mom and I love you.
And so again I’ve written a letter to my mom. I don’t know why but there are times when that’s all that seems suiting. It’s the only thing I know to do to release the unbearable sea of turmoil inside of me. It’s as if I do it to hint that I need her, to give my brain a relief by allowing it to believe that she will fix it. She wont. My mom wouldn’t be able to handle anything I have written; not here, not anywhere. I don’t blame her. I know her struggle because there are times that I find myself falling into nasty habits. I’ve never willingly done a drug in my life, nor will I ever, but I do find self-soothing mechanisms to lessen the burden on my shoulder. I’ve learned to shut the world out, shut my life out, shut emotion out…I’ve learned to not feel without using the drugs and alcohol. I’ve mastered the skills of dissociation to rid me of my grief. And as I write letters to my mom, a piece of me wishes she would see the things I have to say to her, the questions I have. I want her to be my mom, to be with me, to comfort me. At times, I feel that if she were here all those horrible memories would just go away. That the cringe from being called a whore would disappear and instead she would call me beautiful. The shame of being a toy would just go away and her hug would be welcomed. There is something, so surfaced, that believes that there is magic out there and that one day this will all disappear, I will wake up, and my mom will be my mom. BUT IT WONT. Logically I know this, but it doesn’t make my life any easier. I still love her, I still hate her, I still wish she were here. And so, I will continue to write her these letters with a tinge of hope that one day they will make a difference.