Oh Mother, How Can I Tell You?

Oh Mother,

I don’t know how to tell you the truth I have kept from everyone. Yet I know you are the one I am most afraid to tell.

I am ill. Oh, so ill. Yes, you drive me to the doctors and even pay the bills, yet you can never know just how sick I am. I never told you the pain I am in. You hold me up as I am about to collapse but you don’t know the fight it is for me.

I want to stand on my own feet but that is nothing to what no one sees. My body aches and my head spins. Yet is the draining of my blood that gets to me. The pain behind my eye is sharp and strong, a never-ending stabbing that pulls all the light I am in and turns it into a boiling heat. I told you it hurts, and I know you believe. Yet you will never see. Despite this pain I stand, walk, and pretend it is all well for if you knew the truth you would hurt as well.

The fight it takes to get my body to obey my commands is hard enough without having to hide it from you and everyone. I know you would say that I can tell you anything. Yet you will never understand that this is not something that can be said.

I am afraid Mother. Terrified as my body shacks and throws itself in different patterns. The seizures Mother. They are different than others. I am awake and know what is happening. It is terrifying to have no control. To lose the battle that I should never have to fight. Mother, you gave me this body and for that I love it. Yet the constant fight is driving me crazy.

Twenty-two years old and feeling as if I am nothing. To have my elder brother live here still so he can help care for me. I feel so selfish. I know it’s not my fault, but I can’t help but feel as if I am the one to blame, for every misfortune.

I need to stand and not faint, but it is impossible sometimes to even make my lungs move. I fight for breath as my lungs burn with the need to function but desperately disobedient. I know I try to listen, but my body doesn’t do the same. I am calm and quiet but inside I am desperately running for the time I can breathe freely.

Yes, I know it is not often when I can’t breathe and eventually, I do so all on my own. Yet Mother you will never see it. My battle, my fight, my war is with myself.

I need to lay down, but the bed is too soft. It supports nothing and leaves me hurting. I am unusual and prefer to sleep on the floor even on rocks. Did I ever tell you why? If I can feel the sharp rocks, I can feel something other than my pain. Yes, sharp rocks always bring forth thoughts of pain for others yet for me it brings relief. Maybe it is pressure points, maybe it is a need for some other senses, maybe it disrupts the signals of my pain to my brain. Whatever the reason, I will not have you pay for a new bed when in honesty I never want to use one.

I long for another time, another century when electrons and driving aren’t a thing. When my illness wouldn’t prevent me from living as others did. I know I wouldn’t be able to work as long as others do but I could be far more normal if I lived in the 1800s. I could be of worth, sewing dresses or using the wildflowers to make soaps and lotions. However, we live now in the 2000s and all I do is not only different but insignificant.

Why am I sharing all of this with you? I honestly can’t imagine doing so.

I am scared Mother, not only of the pain but of what I will become. You raised me to understand and love Motherhood. Therefore, are you surprised that my greatest wish in life is to be a wife and mother? To care for children of my own. To have someone depend on me completely.

Yet it is that desire that will forever prevent me. I know I am able to seemingly function normally in life, for the most part. Yet it is all an act. I hide in my room because being around people is overwhelming, and so I can have my pain show on my face without hearing “What can I do for you?” I know you mean well but the pain isn’t going to go away. It is forever going to stay.

I am dying, I don’t know how long I will have left in life. No one is promised tomorrow. Yet I am not promised today. I faint you can see and even know why but you can never feel the fear and the pain that comes with it. The blood seems thin and gone from my limbs. The chill you feel when you touch my hands is nothing to the chill that touches my bones as the blood stops reaching them. The fear that comes from your world going black is not one that has been described in any book. I can hold myself up if I just stand still but the blackness comes in a wave of disorientation. I don’t mean that I forget who I am or where I am but a disorientation within my own skin.

The pain I can endure for you taught me to be strong. The fear I hide and pretend that it never belonged. Yet the disorientation is not something that can be forgotten. Yet doctors proclaim it is noting.

Mother. I fear being a wife and mother not only do I fear not being capable of caring for my husband and children. I fear being a burden as I am to you now. I know I have been given a home for as long as I need it. Yet can I truly trust that I might need a home longer than you? Honestly, I don’t think I have much time left. Yet even if I did how could I be a mother and give my child such pain as I endure every day?

My time is short as I am unable to absorb enough nutrients, my blood can’t keep up, and my head feels as if there is a rod sticking out. What am I to do? If I only have a short time left, I don’t want to spend it in bed. I want to live for however long I am alive. So yes, I make no money, I don’t go to college, I don't drive. Yet since tomorrow isn’t promised to anyone, how can we ever waste it away?

The greatest secret of all is one I never want to admit. I think part of me blames you. You didn’t do anything except give me your DNA. The DNA that is full of health issues. The one where my issues seem like nothing. Yet how can I blame you when you are why I am still alive?

You have more patience than anyone I know. Three of your five children are disabled mentally and yet you almost never yell and when you need a moment to keep from losing your control you take it and come back out a minute later as calm as if you were sitting in a meadow of flowers. Even when our anger has hurt you, you still find a reason to smile. Your quiet demeanor paves the way to calm.

If there was one thing, I wish I could tell you that I never will be able to, is this. Sometimes all I want is a hug. Yet I can never ask for one. Maybe that has come from all my brain damage, or maybe it is simply uncomfortable. Whatever the case we have established for no one to ever touch me other than children, as it only makes things worse. So how can I harbour desires for a hug when I can never ask for one?

I know I am crazy Mother and I will gladly proclaim it. Yet mother do you really love me? I know you say you do, but I often feel as if everyone would be far better off without me.

Mother, how can you love me? Do I have the strength to love myself?

Love your Daughter,