A secret for you, "Mother"

Dear "Mother",

I never told you this before, but I think you are a horrible person. I think you have some significant mental health issues that you seriously need to consider having diagnosed and treated. Given what I know about you, and the things you did to me, I am confidant in saying that you have a personality disorder. This is a primary reason why I have not spoken to you in fifteen years, and why I will not speak to you. This explanation probably doesn't satisfy your questions, so let's dive right in.

I was afraid of you growing up. I was afraid of your lability and instability. I was afraid every time I heard your footsteps, and every time you cleared your throat. My life was spent on eggshells, doing your bidding, and growing up far too quickly. You were, and I would imagine still are, a miserable, angry, narcissistic person. The only person you cared about other than yourself was your son, who seems to be on the same path that you have walked. Let's discuss a few of the things that caused me so much trauma. You would yell at me for the slightest infraction, or for no reason at all. You would call me names, slap me across the face, and make me wash windows until they had no streaks. Nobody else had to clean. You didn't clean, your son didn't clean, only I had to. I started doing my own laundry when I was ten. I did my own cooking as well. When hooligans would come in and steal things from us, you blamed me. In fact, you blamed me for everything that went wrong, everything your son did wrong, and everything that you were unhappy about.

I hated you when I was growing up. I hated you for keeping me from my dad. I hated you for your cruelty. I hated you for hating me. I hated how you would go on strike, and I would be eating toast for dinner for a week. I hated how you didn't teach me anything of positive benefit. There were some things that you taught me, however. You taught me how to be reactive instead of responsive. You taught me how to respond with anger in every situation. You taught me how to manipulate others. You taught me how to shirk responsibility. You taught me how to hate others. You taught me how to hate myself. You taught me that I was worthless, that nobody valued me. You taught me that people could treat me however they wanted to, and that it was okay.

Let's have a quick review: I think you're horrible, you have at least one mental illness (likely two; one being a personality disorder), I was afraid of you, I hated you, I hated myself because of you, and you taught me nothing of benefit. Is that enough secrets yet? Maybe you knew these things, maybe you didn't. I think we should discuss some deeper, darker secrets. I was uncomfortable around your boyfriends. Really uncomfortable. Especially when they would kiss me, or generally come near me. I didn't trust them. I think they might be part of the reason that I have blocked out a huge portion of my childhood. Or maybe it was your sons friends that caused me trauma. They would fondle me, threaten me, trap me. I had to do things in order to protect myself. I didn't know how to cope with that. I didn't know how to cope with anything. You should have taught me how to protect myself, how to love myself, how to hold myself to a higher standard than you held yourself to. You should have taught me what to do when someone was hurting me, taking advantage of me. You didn't. You failed.

I have another secret to tell you, mother. When I was eleven, I knew that I was clinically depressed. It was at that age when I first contemplated suicide. I thought about getting really sick, or maybe hit by a car, just to see who would visit me in the hospital. I thought about dying or getting sick all the time. Partly to see who cared, partly to get away from you. I understand that those thoughts don't quite count as suicidal ideations. I'm getting there. If you'll remember, we had a knife drawer that contained a butcher knife. I would think about how difficult it would be to slit my neck with it. Would it hurt? Would I go into shock right away and not even notice the pain? How long would it take for you to notice? Would you care? Would you be happier that it would be just you and your son? How long would it take for people to forget me? These were the thoughts that plagued me daily. I hated myself. I hated you.

When I was eighteen, I learned that you were angry with me for not having spent my childhood taking care of you and your son. You wanted me to be more concerned about the two of you than about my own survival. You resented my intelligence. You didn't want me to be happy or successful. You didn't understand how your warped beliefs were incredibly harmful. You probably still don't get it.

When I was in my early thirties, I learned that you thought I was angry and holding a grudge. Here's another secret for you. I wasn't. I was traumatized, yes. I was disturbed by your actions, your mindset. Most importantly, I was aware. I was aware of your behavior. I was aware of your tactics, your manipulation, your deeply imbedded anger. I was aware of your absolute toxicity and how detrimental it was to the people around you. I had long ago opted out of being one of those people. When my daughter was just shy of two years old, you assaulted me with her in my arms. You terrified her to her core. You made threats and you tried to kidnap my child. I could possibly put up with you if it was just me. I was not going to allow you into my daughter's life just so you could mess it up. I was not going to allow you to damage her the way you damaged me. You wonder why I won't allow you in my life. Do you go around eating arsenic? No, it's toxic. Why would you invite that kind of problem into your life? It's the same story here. You are not welcome in my life because of the damage you caused with your toxicity. So, there you have it. The secrets I'm willing to share. The final words you will ever hear from me. You hurt me beyond repair. You, "Mother", made your bed. Lie in it.