This is an open letter to my Mother.
I’m sorry I can’t make you happy. I’m sorry I’m not you. I did try, though. I tried to accept things the way they always would be – and failed. I’m sorry I make you sick. I wish you’d stop saying that though.
Next time you throw your favorite kitchen knife at me, or slap me in public and push me so I fall down, make sure you don’t miss your mark.
I’m almost twenty-four and I’m still bound by you. You make a scene when I leave. You’ve convinced me to believe that I’m sick and toxic and nobody would ever want me. Gee, thanks, Mum.
You’ve got me believing that I’m incapable of human interactions and of loving someone. And that nobody yould love me for me. You’ve scared the life out of me and cried so my friends would sympathize with you for having such a “shite daughter.” You’ve left me with nothing. Cut me open, all you’ll see is black.
You’ve scarred me for life.
To you, I’m just a business pawn. I’ll help with the hospital. Right? You can marry me off to someone to take over. Some retina-specialist. Talk about limited dating options. And what would my job be? Procreation. Taking the tradition further.
All the while, you keep saying, “You worthless slut, I wanted a son and I got stuck with you!”
But, honestly, why do you blame me, for being born? I never asked for this. It’s not my fault I’m not the son you wanted.
I wish you’d still tried, though. To love me, I mean. Pretended, maybe.
Do you remember ever taking me out for a movie? Holding my hand while I crossed the road? I still can’t cross the road. I hold on to people’s shirt-sleeves. Why? You weren’t there. Nobody was. I don’t remember where Dad was. Busy setting up the hospital, I guess. At least he didn’t cheat, lie or steal. That’s one good thing.
You’ve taken everything away from me, Mum. I’ll say this again. I have no good memories of my childhood, thanks to you. Just pain. Physical and verbal violence, that’s gotten more violent with each passing day.
It’s one thing to be a helicopter parents – I would even understand that – and it’s a completely different thing to be an abusive parent. I’m dying in your shadow, Mum.
And I still wish you’d be there for me. All I wanted, ever, was to be accepted. I gave up my dreams to keep yours alive. Don’t I get the slightest credibility, maybe? No. You won’t give me that even. In your so-called “elite society”, maybe this is how you raise your children – abuse them, compare them to others and belittle them to the point of chronic depression.
I need you to leave me alone, Mum. To let me breathe.
This is the last time I will ever talk about this. You haven’t been my friend for 24 years. Don’t try now.
Still your daughter,
This is a true story.