I want to start by saying how many times I’ve written this letter before. Always in my head, never on paper. All the things I’ve dreamed of saying to you but haven’t had the guts for. I guess I still don’t.
I want you to know that you are the reason I’m never going to have children. I’m too afraid I will treat them the same way you treat me. No human being on this planet deserves that. Over the course of my whole life you have bullied me, belittled me, hurt me emotionally and physically, and been the main reason for why I’ve cried myself to sleep. As if that weren’t enough, the few times I tried to approach you about it, you tried to make me feel guilty because “I’m not being abused, there are kids who have it way worse than me, and you don’t even hit me that often.”
I want you to know that I still can’t watch Dumbo or read Love You Forever without dissolving into a puddle of tears because of the pain and jealousy that tears through me whenever I see someone with a mom who actually loves them. Everything I’ve ever seen since I was little has always said that parents are the people you can always count on, the ones who will love you unconditionally, understand your mistakes, and be there for you when you need them. I can’t think of a single instance where I’ve been able to talk to you about something that matters to me. You don’t know that I battled with eating disorders and self hate. You don’t know anything about me beyond the fact that I am a girl. I know the only reason I got that blow dryer for Christmas was because there was a two for one sale at Shoppers and that you got the same one for my cousin.
I want you to know that I flinch whenever my friends move too quickly around me at school because of the times you’ve hit me. You say you’re proud of the good grades I get, but I wonder if you know the only reason they’ve been so high since elementary was because I was afraid of what you would do to me if thy dropped. I don’t think you know that the very few times I’ve gotten into trouble from a teacher I’ve broken down crying out of fear of what you’d do once you found out.
I want you to know I hate you. I hate you more than you could even imagine. I hate the fact that you dramatize everything and make it about yourself. I hate the fact that you got a headache or appendicitis before every single one of my performances. I hate the fact that our family can’t go to restaurants or movies with you because you always make a scene at the expense of employees who have done nothing wrong.
I want you to know that the concept of a mother who is understanding, forgiving, and caring stirs such longing in me it feels like my heart is under the pressure of an ocean.
I want you to know that I love you and I wish you loved me.