A Letter I Can’t Send: To My Mother

We all have letters we’d like to send, but know that we can’t. A letter to someone we no longer have a relationship with, a letter to a family member or friend who has died, a letter to reclaim our power or our voice from an abuser.

Letters where actual contact is just not possible.

Do you have a letter you can’t send?

Why not send it to The Band?

Dear Senior, 

You don’t like me and I don’t like you. I love you; I’ll help you in any way that I can (within reason), but I can’t spend time around you unnecessarily.

You were so anxious to have a child that you could mold into a mini-you that you even named me after yourself. When I was a small child, you were so very fond of me. You spoke to me ever-so-gently, kindly with a note of genuine concern. You cuddled and held me.

Somewhere around middle school, when my father became sick, the constant yelling and mistreatment began. You’d wake me out of a sound sleep on a school day, screaming my name, demanding to know where your hair comb was. Eight times out of ten, you’d misplaced it yourself.

One of the few times I’d misplaced your comb, you threatened to kick me out of the house. Imagine a middle school student lying in bed terrified that she may no longer have a home. Could I move in with my 80-year old grandmother who had no means of transportation, in a different school district in the middle of the school year? You still gloat about your threat to evict your minor child over a one dollar comb.

You fed off of my fear and misery, then licked your cruel fingers clean. I’ve been screamed at so often I’ve considered changing my name. For years, I took the abuse - I thought it made me the more mature one by not engaging in your yelling matches.

Long periods of “the silent treatment” were regular and particularly hurtful for a sensitive only child who’d already endured bullying at school only to come home to a vindictive, mean, 40-year-old with all of the couth and sensitivity of a 20-year-old tenth grader.

Over the years, bouts of depression occasionally seeped in.

You didn’t notice.

When I’d endure the embarrassment of telling you something personal, regardless of what it was, you deemed it “all in my head:” the bullying, the leaking bladder, the classmates talking about me behind my back, and the depression. That would have had to be one hell of an imagination!

During my teen years, I began to fight back. I was expected to speak to you respectfully despite the way you treated me.

That just didn’t make sense.

I began to yell back with all of the pent-up force I could muster. It felt good to stand up for myself. I’d never tolerate such treatment from anyone else, why should you be the exception? I’ve never cursed you or put my hands on you, but I defend myself verbally and I do it very well.

You are saccharine sweet; you bow to lick the anuses of friends, strangers, even my husband. He’s definitely noticed your harsh, vindictive ways, and is concerned by the way it angers me and causes me great anxiety.

My husband is a God-send. He is patient, kind, gentle, and I’ve never heard him raise his voice. He knows about my past and encourages me to let go of the anger because I’m the only one suffering. I even sent you an email asking, “At which point did you come to the conclusion that you no longer liked me and refused to speak to me kindly?”

You didn’t even have the courtesy to respond.

You had no business birthing a child. You did not have the temperament, attentiveness, or the patience for the job. You preferred spending your days immersed in the lives in your precious romance novels.

I was left to fend for myself - most times you had no idea where I was. Unfortunately as a result, I prefer my own company. I’m intolerant to the smallest of distractions from another.

You’re 62 now; if you’d birthed me two years ago, maybe we’d have stood a better chance at having a loving family. I see you interact with small children and wonder where the hell was that lady when I was in need of being loved.

As a child I had to pick up on your every nuance and vocal inflection to determine the best way to avoid your wrath. That over-analysis is now making communication with my beloved very difficult. I can pick up on a sigh, the emphasis of a certain syllable, and his body language in an attempt to read him to make sure he isn’t displeased.

I have you to thank for that.

My husband recommended therapy to help me release my hurt, but it’s useless if you aren’t there to participate. I didn’t get here alone. You’ll never admit your part in the decades of abuse simply because I had a home, food, clothing, and most of the extras I wanted. Those things are long gone. What I’m left with is OCD, GAD, panic attacks, and mild agoraphobia.

I once considered crawling into your bed with you only to wake you up so that I could put a gun in my mouth, pull the trigger, then collapse into your lap with my cranial bits all over you. I realized you’d be viewed as the victim, surrounded by attention, sympathy, and lackeys attending to your every need. Then you’d win.

I am contemplating breaking all means of communication once I no longer live in the same state as you. You’ll finally get what you’ve always seemed to want: to be alone. Just as I finished typing this letter you walked by wishing me a Happy Birthday with all of the enthusiasm of a prison inmate eating a bologna sandwich for the 2000^th time.

I’m still here and I have someone who loves me, baggage and all.

I win!

Love,

Junior