The Letter

My mother used to tell me that the connection she and I shared was one that I would not be able to understand until I had a daughter of my own. She was right. My mom died 3 years ago. It wasn’t until the end of her life and, mostly after her death, that I fully appreciated the bond between us.

I spent so much of my life being angry with her. I was abused for years by her stepfather. I did not tell her of my abuse until well into adulthood. Her reaction was so unexpected that I chose to walk away from civilized life and step into the animalistic world of drugs and addiction. For five years we barely spoke.

I still believe that I was justified in my anger. But righteous anger without proper perspective will never be right.

I began fantasizing about what would happen when I told my parents about Da’s abuse when I was 8. Over the years I played out many different scenarios of their reaction.

Never did I imagine that my mother would say, “I kind-of thought something like that was going on. But Jessi, you’re an adult now. Suck it up and don’t you dare tell your father.” I was devastated.

I was 30 years old. and had finally managed to put together 5 years of complete sobriety. I found purpose for my life through ministry. But just because I was sober didn’t mean that my mental illness went away. In fact, I did not address having bipolar at all during that time. In that moment with my mother in front of me, my heart began to pound and my thoughts raced, making no sense in my head.

I was catapulted into a manic episode.

In three days i managed to throw away five years of hard work. So, I disappeared. I spent my entire savings on crack cocaine. I lost the privilege of spending time with my daughter. Within a few months (all of which I was in a manic episode) I was in jail facing a 20-month prison sentence.

For the next several years I went in and out of incarceration and existing in a life that was a prison of my own making.

Until 2015. The year before I was sentenced to another prison bid. While incarcerated I volunteered for the state-run rehab. Doing this built a bridge that my parents were willing to meet me on. I moved in with them when I got out. I was able to start letting go of my anger. My mom was not well a lot of that time and I just wanted her to have peace. We became friends. She never really addressed the comment and she still talked to me about my grandfather.

When she died, I was so confused and still had so many questions. Like, “if you thought it, why didn’t you stop it?” or, “How could you still be so desperate for him to love you after what he did to me?’. My bipolar disorder is a result of PTSD. Ages 6-12 are formative years for a child. I was molested for all six years.

To survive mentally I had to be two people. I had to keep my shameful secret hidden. On the outside, I was outgoing and fun. But on the inside, I wanted to be anyone but me. I began having extreme shifts in my mood. My mom took me to my first therapist because I was acting out early on. I developed instinctual reactions to stressors that have NOT served me well over a lifetime.

Never did my mom let on that she knew anything. I went to his house almost every other weekend for a while. I went to Mexico alone with him for a week. How could she let it happen?

All of that anger washed over me like a flood. My mom used to say that I was like a tornado ripping through lives when I was manic. The tornado was unleashed after her death. Drugs, disappearing, even an overdose. Then I found a letter with my name in the title on my mother’s computer.

That letter changed my life.

In it, she spoke of her own childhood abuse. Her uncle had done to her what Da did to me. She acknowledged that I suffered more but she felt paralyzed by fear. She said that her father had gambled away their entire estate. She was 16. She had to start over with a mother that was cruel to the point of abuse. It was in reading this letter that I was able to connect with my mother’s pain. I had a shift in my perspective and could understand now that she was a victim also. She was just like me, a hurt woman that was trying to make sense of her pain, loss, and love.

She loved me. She loved me unconditionally. She gave up so much during her many attempts to help me. She never addressed the abuse itself, but she did try to treat the outcome.

She never gave up on me. Never. She saw me. The real me. She knew my thoughts and moods even better than I knew them. I have been far from perfect since she died. I have struggled more with my mental illness in the last few years than ever before. I think that is because I am finally making a real effort to manage it. So often I beat myself up for slow progress. But every time I do, I hear my mom whispering reassurances in my ear. I know that she is proud of me.

I wonder if, had I told my mom then what was happening, would I have had all of the struggles with mental illness and addiction? I will never know the answer to that. I am glad then that I don’t know because I would not change my life. I would not because it has made me who I am. It has given me heartache and loneliness. It has given those who love me tremendous amounts of pain. But because of my life, I am able to, not just sympathize with others’ pain, but I can say to them “I understand. I know all the words that you can’t say.” That connection is enough for me.

I love you, Mom.

----Beautifully Crazy

Dedicated to Bonnie Snider (1952-2017)