Dear Mother

Dear Mother,

In the solemn stillness of my thoughts, I reach out through this letter, a vessel for the words that weigh heavily upon my soul. What can I say, Mother? The words 'I love you' from your lips often come shrouded in the aftermath of scolding, their warmth lost in the chill of discipline.

You've voiced a poignant refrain, attributing your lifelong absence of joy to our very being. Our home, a gallery of your desires, is filled with trinkets, glasses, and art—each piece a silent testament to a happiness sought but never found. Is it because of me, Mother? I've peered into the annals of your life, a narrative of a fatherless child raised by a man whose features bore no resemblance to yours, only to discover the truth in the whispers of your too-dark skin.

Was it my existence that consigned you to solitude, the lone outcast in a family of twelve? Was it my birth, the result of my father's fleeting passion, that led you down paths of misplaced affection? You profess love, but its sincerity remains veiled in ambiguity. Was it born from weariness, after a parade of men exploited your dreams, leaving you with nothing but broken promises?

Life was no fairytale for us, Mother. There was a time when resentment took root in my heart, but I have since embarked on a journey of healing—a path you seem unable to tread. Like you, I masked my loneliness with material possessions, a hollow attempt to feign contentment while my inner child yearned for liberation.

I recall the burdens you placed upon me, entrusting me with the care of my siblings while you toiled. The simple joys of childhood—summer camps, field trips, dance, and music classes—remained elusive dreams. I understand the trials you faced, alone and young, especially after Grandmother's passing.

Your favored child has drifted away, and without your initiative, she remains distant. It pains me to acknowledge that sometimes, even one's best efforts are not enough. Were you aware of the heartache we endured, longing for the love that was absent at home? Your only son's greatest fear is not of spiders but of abandonment. Your eldest daughter, striving for perfection, found herself trapped in a loveless marriage, her spirit shattered. And my twin sister, labeled and misunderstood, struggles with her own demons.

As for me, Mother, I grapple with depression. Every day is a battle to find reasons to persevere, to seek logic in the darkness. But logic alone cannot lift the weight of this affliction. I need help, Mother, beyond prayers and crystals. I am healing, striving to be open, no longer concealing my pain behind a facade of smiles.

It's ironic, isn't it? How you boast of my potential to others, yet never invested in my passions—art, dance, singing, reading, writing, mathematics. Why could you lavish thousands on strangers but not on your own children, or even your future security?

I thought I had moved past these grievances, Mother. I understand you were young and wounded, but in turn, you've left your children fractured. When will we find happiness, Mother? When will the cycle of brokenness end?

With hope for understanding,

Discoveryng Depth