Mother, Mother

(Note from the author: This is written from the perspective of me 2 years ago, after leaving a very abusive relationship. I'm 20 years old now, and relatively okay now! My relationship with my mother is still unconventional, but it has healed immensely. Enjoy!)

Dear Mother,

You've raised me, or have you? Yes, you have. It's not the time to be spiteful. You've raised me for the past 19 years. I'm your only child. You had me late. I wasn't a plan for you. You and I both know you didn't and still don't know what you're doing. You were 37, sure, but you hadn't matured; the party-hard mentality still rang true in your head until you finally found out I was with you.

I think often that, deep down, you think I ruined your life, and I'd go so far as to agree. You had made every precaution to not have me, and despite your live-fast mentality, you were responsible - you would not have had me with my father if you had chosen to have children.

I know that our relationship so far has been an ebb and flow between simply not getting along and outright hating each other, and I know it hurts you as much as it hurts me, because you're my only mother, and I'm your only child.

I've been through some things. Things that were partially your fault, and things that are growing pains. Things that you didn't know about, and things that you refused to acknowledge. I've just come home, now, running away once again from a growing pain that hurt me much more than a growing pain should. I come home to you, because you're all I have. You're the only person who will ever truly be there for me, even when you wish you'd never had me, and I echo the same sentiment. Our relationship is atrocious, I won't pretend it's not, but at it's base, it is unbreakable, and I need that right now; I need you. I know you won't believe me for awhile, because no matter how directly I communicate with you, you're a believer through tangibility and not testimony, but eventually, you will. You'll hold me up by my hands, much like when I was a toddler learning to walk, and you'll hold me steady until I can learn how to trudge onwards on my own two feet again, and I'm grateful for that.

The funny thing about trauma is that, specifically for domestic abuse, you don't know it's happening until you simply do, and even then, your heart fights the notion. "How could you let that happen to you? You must be overreacting, it must be a miscommunication or just blatantly your own fault," your mind says, and sometimes, you agree, you buy into it, and you sink back into the dark space, but other times, you fight your heart, with your mind, "This is wrong, this needs to stop, nothing I could have ever possibly done is deserving of this in return," and you get this moment of clarity, like standing in a field of golden grass in the afternoon, suddenly realizing how fresh the air feels, and how peaceful the area is around you, and then you think. It's almost like having an epiphany - you've released yourself from the shackles, and suddenly, everything makes sense.

Before I came home, I had one of these epiphanies: you. I left with this stranger to get away from you. I was so blinded by anger and hate that I could not see anything else. This stranger hurt me, took advantage of me while I was driven by these emotions. I realized that, no matter how much we disagree, I would never hurt like this at home, with you. I suddenly understood that, even when we do argue, we always come back together; we make up - it may still be tender, many things still are, but we laugh and go back to mutual understanding that we are each simply trying our best. I must confess, Mother, that I came to the realization, that at the end of the day,

I love you.

I still love you. I've always loved you. You step on my toes, I certainly step on yours, but neither of us mean it. I love you. You love me, I know you do.

Our relationship is unconventional. Not many people have a relationship this rocky with their parent. A part of me envies that. But another part of me realizes that, without our relationship, I would not be who I am. I'm proud of who I am. I'm proud of who you are. I hope you're proud of me. You made me who I am: a strong, spiteful, feral animal of a human being, sure, but also funny, compassionate, the friend someone, anyone, could ever need. I always know what to say, because I had to learn to be able to communicate with you. I know what it's like to suffer financially, because of how you struggled as a single mother trying to raise a child. I know what it's like to be alone and be okay with it, because you've been alone all these years, and you're still as strong and as tall as a stone monument. I know what it's like to persevere, simply because you made the choice to keep me. You taught me to be headstrong, and go for the things I want in life, but you taught me sacrifice, because sometimes being selfish is not the proper path. You taught me that being yourself is far more valuable than it is to be someone else, and I have a beautiful group of friends now because of that. You taught me to never give up, and thank goodness for it, because otherwise I would either be a high school dropout, or simply in a casket; I may still even be with the people who hurt me the most.

Mama, you are the most perfectly imperfect example I could have ever asked for. Life was hard with you, growing up, and as a child, I hated it, but the flaw of children is lack of understanding. Children can be kind and compassionate, but they don't always understand. I'm still a child now, I won't pretend I'm not, but I've grown. I've come to realize that, contrary to how 12-year-old me would think, you're exactly who I want to be in life. I want to be just like you, but I want to avoid the mistakes you've made. I don't hold any of them against you, but I want to live the life you wish you could have lived - I want to make you proud, I want to become the woman you could have been. I love you.

Your baby,

Erin