Dear Mom,
We've had a rocky relationship. I'm not sure if you're aware of it but our relationship is still tumultuous; I just hold back because I'm not sure how you'll react. Logically I know that things you've said are untrue and spoken in moments of anger or frustration, I still remember them.
When I was eight, you left me to live with Grandma and Grandpa. Now I know you didn't abandon me, but that's what Grandma told me...at eight years old. Understandably, this has left me with a fear of abandonment and fear that I am unlovable. I struggle because still I don't feel good enough, like I deserve love. Slowly, I'm realizing that people who truly love ME for me won't willingly walk away - that I am good enough. That I do deserve to be loved.
I forgive you for that.
When I moved back in with you guys when I was nine, you yelled at me because I was upset. You yelled that I seemed to think you guys loved Adam more than you loved me, and I was right: you did. Again, this made me feel I wasn't being good enough. That I was unlovable. It also left me with a considerable dose of resentment toward Adam, especially since you've treated him so much differently than Lindsey and I over the years. Whether you do love him more or not, that's on you - I can't make you love me or change your mind (or your heart).
I forgive you for that.
When I was ten, you refused to help me with my bangs before school pictures because you "didn't want to touch my zitty forehead." Maybe no one helped you with your problem skin when you were younger so you were still hurt/angry/frustrated. This comment from you, a contrast to the compliments I once received about my skin (the ONLY compliments I received about my appearance), makes me horribly uncomfortable, embarrassed, and ashamed when my skin breaks out. I feel dirty, ugly, and imperfect - flawed. But I'm not my skin, it does clear up, and it's not that bad.
I forgive you for that.
When I was eleven, you called me a 'moose' on numerous occasions. I was ELEVEN. My hormones were out of control and my body was changing. Maybe you heard similar barbs growing up? That label left me ashamed, embarrassed, and angry at my body. I still feel like a big, fat failure. I worry that people will turn their noses up, disgusted by me if I'm not perfect. Well, perfect's overrated. I'm more than my body. If people aren't going to give me a chance because of the way I look, that's their loss, not mine.
I forgive you for that.
When I was twelve, I'd gone to bed with your Wilson Philips cassette in my Walkman. I guess I was singing along louder than I thought because before I knew it, you'd flipped on the hall light, flung open my door, and demanded "I quit singing because I sounded like a bullfrog." Did you know that twenty years later, I still won't sing in front of people?
I forgive you for that.
When I was thirteen, you stayed out all night on a school night, knowing full-well I wouldn't sleep until you got home. You TERRIFIED me. I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere. I was so scared and overwhelmed - like I wasn't capable or responsible enough to be in charge of Adam and Lindsey. I felt like what I was: a frightened child who shouldn't have been put in that position in the first place. When I saw you crawl out of the back seat after some guy, I was disgusted, disappointed that you put a man before your children's safety. You've never explained OR apologized for this incident.
I forgive you for that.
When I was fifteen, we were in the car and you barked at me to move my 'damned head' because you couldn't see past my 'big nose' to turn. I still automatically turn my head and press it back into the seat when Jason's making a turn. It pisses him off that you did this to me, but I forgive you for that.
You've spent my entire life giving the silent treatment instead of respecting me enough to name my transgression. You'd go entire weeks without saying more than two words to me. Then you'd speak if I forced you by asking a direct question. Meanwhile, you'd be sickeningly sweet to everyone around me to drive home the point that you were ignoring me. To this day I cannot let angry space linger with Jason; I will pick at him, nag him, and bully him into talking to me, even though I hate myself for doing it. I worry if I let him ignore me (even for ten bloody minutes), he'll never stop being angry. He'll stop loving me and abandon me, too.
I realized just yesterday this is likely your idea of "better" parenting - better than screaming hateful, hurtful things you can't take back like Grandma did to you, right? It's the same reason I can count on one hand the number of times I was spanked in my life and still have fingers left over, the same reason you can't own a wooden spoon: you're scared you won't be able to stop yourself like she couldn't when she was beating you.
I forgive you for that.
Two years ago, Adam went to court on my birthday. You chose that day to take your stress and fears out on me by telling me what a horrible, awful person I am. I'm not supportive, that I think I'm better than Adam, that my disappointment and disgust is painfully obvious, and that my distaste for his actions make him uncomfortable around me (the first I'd EVER heard such a thing). I know you were worried. I know you were upset. I know you were scared.
I forgive you for that.
I know that you've endured a lifetime of abuse at the hand of your mother, someone who should have loved you wholly and unconditionally. I know you've been disappointed by the inaction of your father, someone who should have defended and protected you.
I know you've worked very, very hard to avoid making their mistakes. I know you've done the very best you were capable of doing. I know you've never intended to hurt me.
I forgive you.
Love,
Amanda
