It has been years in the working I suppose. Everything I’ve ever felt towards you had been resentment free. And now, all those years have stockpiled themselves, crushing their protective boundaries against a brick wall of built up indignation. Instead of preserving an inventory of scorns, I empathized with you. How could I fault you when I had perfected the art of holding dear to a rapport of understanding why things were as they were.
I was six. Understanding wasn’t suppose to be my job.
I can only assume how sheltered and innocent you were at the age of 15 when you met the only man you’ve ever been with – to this day. There were moments where holes in my upbringing slowly sewed themselves together. I was 17 when I figured out the best description for your marriage was Stockholm Syndrome. I was 19 when I exiled the existence of the word “dad” from my life. I was 21 when I realized I no longer needed to date a man like your husband. I was 23 when a conversation with a friend revealed I had been raised in a militaristic manner. I was 25 when I discerned that yes, indeed, you could be at fault for my stints of confinements to rooms. To closets. On bread. And water. All these meager epiphanies.
I am 26. And now I am finally infuriated with you.
Never once was I shown how to display anger with health and grace; yet only now is this my attempt. I am not sure I would ever allow you to read this letter because I’m pretty sure it would vanquish you. But, mother, I am angry with you.
I have always been there for you when you needed me…even when your husband was in the hospital and you asked me to go with you. For support. For help in understanding what the doctors said. For you. I went. When he attempted to take his life a few months ago, I was there. When he lost his mind shortly after and made chilling threats on your life, I was there. I took time off work. We moved you out of the house in an emergency fashion. I found you a place to stay. I provided you with all the resources you needed to support yourself. I was there.
You’ve never, not once, ever had to support yourself. You realized how hard it is when life hands you a bag full of tangled struggle. I put my life on hold for a bit and I made sure I was available whenever you needed me to wipe your tears, make you eat, and pay attention to your same stories over and over and over again.
It was really hard to listen to you. I realized at one point, you’re just a bunch of painful memories and sad stories covered in skin. It broke my heart.
I gave you the information necessary for seeing a therapist, finding a different place to stay, and getting out of your abusive relationship. I readily handed you all of the resources I spent years trying to build into my own support system. I knew you’d go back though; most abused women go back a multitude of times. I wanted to make sure you could get a support system in place first before going back. It was important to me; so I made you promise.
The moment I first realized I felt a feeling towards you so foreign it scared me was when I recognized you could not have left and supported yourself for three weeks without help. The next significant instant was when you wholly depended on me to help you. In some twisted way, I was livid that I had to play the mother figure.
Where were you when I needed a mother? Where were you when I was struggling and barely keeping my chin up? Where were you when I was sick and hospitalized? Ah. Yes. I was alone. And you? You were with him. Under his rule. His order. His law.
Now, although I understand why things are the way they are, there is a child within me who just wants a mother. There is a little, tiny soul that just wanted to be held when things got tough. I have a toddler in my heart who just needed you to stand up for me and not meddle in negligence. Ignorance is not always bliss. I am now an adult who yearns to have a real, raw, and honest conversation with you about my life. Mother. I am angry with you for not being able to be any of these things. I am angry with you for going back to him and putting yourself in the same cycle of abuse, manipulation, and control. But above all, I am mournful that you have lost the strength you had while you were away from him.
Mother. I am angry with you, but I will never turn my back on you.
© /skin/ /ˈpōətrē/