Letter to My 20 Year Old Son

Dear son,

Why do I feel like we're stuck on different planets? No matter what I say, you think I'm saying the opposite. You don't believe that I love you. You think I'm just a nag. I don't know how we got to this point where you're addicted to gambling online, begging your dad, Just ten more dollars. And now that he's putting down a hard boundary, you rage to me that he's a dick who deserves to die! You say your dad doesn't respect you, that I don't respect you. He says we're the worst parents in the world. The angriest. When you don't get your way, you yell and you scream. You call me a fucking bitch.

I'm not sure what happened to my happy little boy, the one who loved to laugh, draw comics, and dream of going to Stanford someday. The one that art teachers said was truly gifted with creativity. The film student in highschool who scored the most points for his use of the camera in panning a shot in a scene. The joker who loved to make us laugh, who loved to be pushed on the swing, screaming more, more! The little guy who loved to play store with cardboard boxes from Amazon and stuffed animals who served as cashiers and customers.

Now you spend much of your time on YouTube watching gamblers who stream like Xposed play online casinos such as Stake. You're easily impressed by the wins and the giveaways to poor people from countries such as the Philippines or South Africa. He's better than Mr. Beast, you insist to me when I tell you to stay away from bad association. You are the five people you hang around with the most, I tell him. And who you develop a parasocial relationship with online, even with YouTubers you watch day in and day out, can influence you to make choices. You have a gambling addiction.

Stop calling me names, you gaslighters! You are snarling through your teeth, I can see bubbles in your spit that threaten to come out.

As someone who witnessed domestic abuse between my father and my mother as a young child after a heated argument gone wrong, I wince every time I hear a raised voice. It doesn't matter if it's the homeless person under the bridge or a loved one, I immediately see and hear danger, danger and run to run from tigers.

I hope you understand that you are loved. This is why we continue to pay for your therapists, have even started seeing a parenting coach, are reading books about conscious parenting and trying not to do what my husband's mom did to his brother, which was to kick him out and put him into an institution. We saw what happened with him. He did not turn out well, overdosing years later, never reaching even near his full potential.

Dear son, you are creative, bright, handsome, loved. You love your cats you fostered over the pandemic. When you're not angry, when you're not in your dark room watching YouTube or playing video games or playing with the casino money that Eddie gave you to play, you are a sweet kid.

I don't want to give up on you. I don't see you, as you think I see you, as the scum of the earth. I see that you are traumatized. We haven't been the best parents, although at the time, we thought we were trying our best. There has certainly been enabling and codependency and generational trauma patterns repeated. Yet, we are not giving up on you. I refuse to give up on you. I love you.

I know you will get past this.

I am letting go of control.

I am trusting you will make the right choices.

I give you unconditional love. You are not an extension of me. You are free to be who you want to be in this life.

Love,

Mom

P.S. I realize I cannot make you do anything you want to do. I can care for you but no longer care-take.