Mother, I Must Confess.

Mother, I must make a confession.

I will never let you see this, because if you do, it will break you and any civil relationship we have. I guess this story will work for therapy as well, so dear reader, I hope you can be patient with my emotions and lengthy confession.

Mother, for years I have been in so much pain. While I have been understanding to the best of my ability since your late BPD diagnosis, I have not had time to fully heal. You know this part of my confession well, but it’s good to explain what led up to my confession that will be revealed later.

Before I continue, I will make a disclaimer to my lovely readers. I will never hold a person’s mental health against them or judge them, but Mother, your case is hard for me. Please, anyone who suffers from BPD, please do not take offense to what I have to say. I understand how hard mental illness is, and that having BPD doesn’t make a person “bad”. My mother’s actions cannot simply be blamed on her mental illness as she claims. She abused me, and that is on her.

So, I digress, dear Mother. You broke me, and yet you have tried to excuse your actions. As a child you forced me to care for your other children and take care of your home while you slept, drugged yourself, or allowed yourself to become sucked into a virtual world. I had to learn how to cover bruises and make excuses for you while I walked on crutches. Your husband, my stepfather, added to this pain as I was thrown through walls or down steps.

You allowed me to be abused, my innocence taken as before I was in grade school and my life destroyed. You never got me the help I needed, and instead further blamed and abused your children when you were even slightly upset. We learned to walk on eggshells, and live in fear of who you might be any given day. I knew you as two mothers: Mom and the Monster. But, who were you really?

Mother, you threw me out of your home time and time again, and finally kicked me out when my friend offended you. You then held my relationship with my siblings against me, and pretended you changed to bring me into your pull and push relationship. I’ll admit, I was naive, stupid and hopeful that maybe you’d changed and I’d finally have a mother. Later, I learned I had PTSD and learned my boundaries.

I won’t get into every detail here. I won’t lament every injury you inflicted on my mind and body. I won’t dive into my marriage to an abusive man, and how our relationship revolved around both of your manipulative tactics. I won’t discuss your husband further, my siblings, or my children. I don’t need to make this letter come off any more ridiculous than it does already, because Dear Reader, if you have ever been abused you might understand the complicated way it affects your entire life. I refuse to give her more power or responsibility than she deserves, and I need to have my boundaries.

I was stupid, though. I should have kept you at arm's length when you contacted me and told me you were in therapy. I shouldn’t have taken your offer to be in my life as a different person, because I wouldn’t be where I am today, as woe is me as that might sound. My anger fills me as I write this. Anger is mostly directed at myself and my utter stupidity.

This is my confession, Mother. I hate you. I hate you so much and I do not see you as my mother. In my mind, you died when you left my father and changed. I wish I’d never tried to have a relationship with you. I was trying to be understanding and trying so hard to let you into my life as someone new. I tried so hard to forgive you. But you lost all that I tried when you sped into the back of another car at 85mph, with me as a passenger and my children in the back seat.

I know, I shouldn’t have taken your offer to drive to the appointment. I should have figured out other accommodations, but I wanted to believe you changed. I was so stupid. So stupid that now I relive that day every night. I was so stupid, in fact, that now I live without a spleen, with very real shattered ribs that collapsed my lung, and need surgery to fix my talus. I am so bloody grateful my children were able to leave with only scratches, but shamefully I often wish you didn’t. Sometimes I wish you had been the passenger, because you swerved in a way that I took the full hit and you three left with minor injuries. I hated you so much in that ICU, but I hated myself more and worried so much about my children.

How dare you say that you don’t remember what you were doing! It was my stupidity to let myself fall asleep on the drive, but don’t you dare use that to get out of this, because my children saw you on that phone! How dare you…how dare you.

I hate you, but I hate myself as well. I hate myself for the chances I gave you, and blaming myself for so many years until I got help for the trauma you caused. I know I will come to terms with my self-hatred in time, but not the one I feel for you. My injuries and ugly scar remind me every day how selfish you are, and how foolish I am. The thing is, I feel if I was the only one you injured that day that I would still try to understand. I would have continued my life and kept you at arms’ length. However, you could have killed my babies and for that I will never, ever forgive you.

Mother, I do not see you as my mother. I don’t even see you as a parent. I see you as nothing. I hate you with deep, shameful, seething, and unsettling hate. I hate you so much you will always be dead to me.

But for the sake of everyone else, you will never know.

Goodbye, Mother.

-H.L. Steele