Why Didn't You Love Me More?

Why didn't you love me more? It is a question that rattles in my brain daily. It wasn't that you were bad parents. I never felt like I was lacking, financially at least. There was something off, however. I don't think I realized it fully until I was a mother myself. Being a mother has given me such intense joy. It has also made me sad knowing I never felt that intensity from my own mother. It has taken until now, at 29, to realize how royally fucked parts of my family are.

A Letter to My Parents:

Dear Mom and Dad,

Why didn't you love me more? Hug me more? Kiss and snuggle me more? Was I not good enough, thin enough, pretty enough?

These questions wreck me. It would kill me for my own daughter to feel this way. I worry that someday I will become you without realizing it. Yes, you took care of me. I had enough food, enough room, but is that all a child needs? For the life of me, I don't remember you saying you loved me. The only time I remember being told was in some attempt to absolve guilt. Dad, you would apologize after yelling, but it would inevitably happen again. Mom, you never apologize. I think in some way you believe you were doing us a favor. Doing us a favor by not leaving, even though you would spend all your time away. At this point, I didn't realize the damage this would have on our future relationship.

I was quite young when I first felt bad about myself. I believe it was fifth grade, Dad, you would speak of other kids who were athletic. I remember being a good soccer player, but that never stopped comparisons. I recall you forcing me to go for a run with you. I wasn't fond of distance running and quickly ran out of breath. You criticized my conditioning, at ten years old. It was at ten years old I felt the first tinge of self-hate. This forced exercise continued until I moved out.

It is in my adult life that I feel like I don't know myself. I don't even know what I actually like. I blame you. I blame both of you for never lifting me up and only tearing me down. I felt I needed to do better. It has me questioning if I ever do anything right. We couldn't be emotional or upset. Especially my brother. Being emotional made him weak or a pansy to you. I watched you tear him down, too. I respect my brother, as an adult, he doesn't seek your approval. He broke free. I hate that I haven't.

Why didn't you love me more? When I was a teenager and I gained five pounds, why did you tell me? Why did you put me on endless diets and tell me you could see the weight I gained. These eyes always watching me, I felt fat and ashamed. I look back now and think it is ridiculous that I thought I was fat. I have slowly gained weight since that first criticism. I can't help but think I would be smaller if you never said a word. You put my value, as a human, on how much I weighed. Dad, you would comment about how pretty other girls were. I remember the single most painful thing you ever said to me. You looked at an old photo of me, I was slightly thinner. You told me I used to be so pretty. I have that photo in my brain, it burns.

Mom, where were you? I needed you. I needed a hug, love, something real. At home, nothing was good enough. You weren't willing to bend, not the way a mother should. I felt like more of a burden to you. I would have no hesitation dropping everything for my daughter. I understand now that you are selfish. Not necessarily in the worst way, but like a teenager who has closed everyone out. I know you saw your marriage to Dad as losing your freedom. Having me must have felt like prison. Maybe you weren't ready for kids. Even now, I feel like you connect with me when it is convenient. You don't call, but I don't blame you. We would have nothing to talk about. I don't even really know you.

—Your Daughter