[Warning: There is quite a bit of anger in this letter.]
LETTER TO MY MOM
First of all, I fucking hate you. There is a part of me that is glad you are in the ground. You seemed like such an emotional wreck all the time that you became a burden. I certainly didn’t want to become your care-taker or your mother. I rebelled against you. You tried to force me to be someone I’m not. I’m so angry that you didn’t fix your shit before breeding. No one who is mentally fucked up should be allowed to breed until they work on themselves.
Why didn’t it work with you and dad? What was the problem? There was always something bad, hiding under the surface of make-believe “happy family” bullshit. So many questions left unanswered because people are too chicken-shit to get into recovery and look at the truth. I’m doing it. Healing is coming so naturally to me, now. It seems so easy for me to heal—it is often difficult to understand why others would want to continue living in misery. I guess we’ve gotta do things at our own pace.
You were obsessed with dad. Why? Why not let him be his own person? Why did you attack him or the computer with a fucking HAMMER, for goodness sake? You blossomed after the divorce—you made friends and became your own person, a little bit. It gave me the impression that women can choose either to have a fun life as single, or a snuffed-out, soul-draining shell of a life as a married person. Why not have both? I want to have it all—a good job, healthy relationships, and a fun life.
Your spiritual abuse pissed me off. I wanted to explore atheism, but you forced me to go to church. You can fucking rot in your hell, bitch. Fuck you. Maybe in your next life, YOU’LL be forced to do shit you know is not right for you.
When I asked you sometimes why you married dad, you always said that it was because you thought he’d make good-looking kids. What the fuck kind of dumb ass reason to marry is that? Well, I guess, I can’t criticize—I got married so Matt could have benefits under my job’s insurance. I don’t even know if I loved him. I have a habit of being attracted to guys simply because they are attracted to me. Which is equally as lame as your sorry ass. I can’t believe I’m related to you. You suck as a mom. You’re dead—the ultimate suck. You can’t win with me—I am pissed you’re alive and equally pissed you’re dead.
I want to hate you forever, but the docs say that it’s only poison in my mind. And I don’t want to hurt myself anymore. You and dad taught me to hurt myself. I feel like you murdered my soul. The only way to resurrect myself is to get the hell away from you and the other [paternal family name]s and finally figure out who I am as a person, without your dysfunctional, toxic influences. Now I’m draining out that poison you injected me with, for years.
I lived with a roommate named KK, when I was 19 or 20 years old. She was a little bit psychic. She said I was a gypsy in a past life—maybe that’s why I like camp fires and fiddles. But anyway, she also said that I was born happy. I guess that that means some of us are born fucking pissed and miserable. But I was born happy. I think I brought lots of happiness into your life, but I have a hunch that you isolated yourself and leaned on me to meet your damn emotional adult needs.
I don’t remember, though, but it’s an educated guess. It’s like coming upon an open spot in the forest, and I see that there is some old smoke coming up from some blackened logs. No one is there and I don’t see a fire, but based on the evidence, I can guess that a fire was there. That is the method I’m using to understand my childhood. I can’t remember much, but based on how I acted in relationships and how I treated myself as a young adult, I can make educated guesses.
I want to yell at you more and fill this journal with hate. I look for reasons to keep hating you. I think if I stop hating you, then that means I’ll be ok with how you acted and what you did. But I’m not ok. At all. Why didn’t anyone pay attention to me? I felt invisible, like a character who was forced to play in your fairy-tale musical of life. You wanted a perfect family and now I battle feelings of worthlessness and I fight m own perfectionism. I even inherited the ability to cling to fantasies, from you. I hate you for that. And what sucks is that you’ll never know my rage. I want you to suffer and die over and over and over again. Really, though, this world is so fucked up that I don’t think anyone should be having children. The “human experience” is such a joke, sometimes.
So did dad really cheat on you? Did you and dad split up when I was young? Will you come to me in a dream and tell me, once and for all?
I remember parts of that house—the one we lived in when I was first born. I remember being behind the couch. I have an image of the stairs. I guess there was a second floor to the house. They were carpeted. I feel dread and fear. I remember the Mickey Mouse night light/lamp.
So were you molested, or what? What the fuck was wrong with you? Why were you so crazy and out-of-whack? What the fuck, dude? Just chill and relax.
The church and community musicals were fun, but I question your underlying motives for making us participate in them. There was fun and laughter on the surface, but it feels like it was an activity to make us look like a loving family or something. I think we tried to divide, or the seeds were set to divide the family long ago. Activities were chosen to give the illusion that we’re some sort of functional family unite. We volunteered like mad. Was that in the “Perfect Family Unit Manual?” You sometimes referred to TV and movie families, like Little House on the Prairie, the family in the Sound of Music, and similar fantasy families. I could tell that that’s what you really wanted. I fucking tried to be what you wanted, but it seemed like your real love was reserved for a potential, future, fantasy family.
All I got was fake love. You didn’t love me—you loved the fantasy of a child, in your mind. You never saw me. I was fucking invisible to you. Fuck you, bitch. Now you’re dead. Your poisonous “lessons” won’t hurt me anymore. Now I’m healing. Bitch. Flowers smell like funerals. I suppose it’s because Uncle Tom’s [my mom’s older sister’s husband] and yours were fairly close together (I think?). And I don’t ever buy flowers, really. They’re too girly. I reject girly things. I want to do the opposite of you. You wanted a pretty fucking little lady who is “nice” and “proper.” I reject your Little Lady bullshit and your wannabe upper-middle class society.
Oh no bitch. I’m not done with you, yet.
So where the fuck were you when dad dragged me into my room and threw me against the wall and pinned me down on the floor? Too absorbed with yourself to help save your own fucking child from the monster you married? You got us to be obedient by threatening us with your monster.
Your words didn’t make sense. Your demands weren’t logical. I rebelled and you resorted to threats to keep me in line, as if I was your fucking slave. Well I am your slave no more.
You failed. You failed as a mother. You flunk Mother 101. You’re fired. I’m taking over the business. Now I’m in charge of nurturing myself. I notice me. I give myself attention and love. I don’t need you, dead whore.
I really wish that people wouldn’t have kids until they are 60-70 years old. By then, surely they will have had plenty of time to heal their shit, so they will stop fucking up their kids. And the dads won’t be able to get it up, anymore, so then maybe they’ll stop trying to sexually abuse the younger population.
I hate that you made us do family activities like board games and walks with the dogs. It was all so fake. We weren’t a real family at all. Just an empty shell, pretending to be filled.
When you died, it was blindingly apparent of the empty shell. There was no foundation to support tragedy—no support system. I hated dad—he pretends, just like you do. Everyone pretends, fucking pretending, that everything is ok, that nothing is wrong. That drove me crazy inside. I hated it.
I’m supposed to write about your lame-ass funeral, so I guess I’ll add it to this letter to your bitch ass. So yeah. They buried you, as I recall. Never could figure out why. I thought I remember you talking about being cremated like your parents. Maybe it was too expensive or something. Or maybe it was all about who has control over the funeral—almost wrote “wedding,” there—because it doesn’t matter what the truth is. Whoever has control in this sorry excuse for a family is the one who is “right”—even if that person is completely whacked in the brain. I refused to play that game—I gave up control over the Will to my sister, just to shut her up.
Seems like everyone was just pretending again, at the funeral—pretending we’re so close and solid, even though I barely know these asshole relatives.
I’m so damn sick of people pretending all over the fucking place. People do it at work, too—pretend to be some sort of cohesive, functional unit and they ignore problems underneath. Drives me bonkers. I refuse to live like that. No more faking or pretending. You can take your pretending to the grave with you. I’m done.
The only things you were good for in my life are piano music, giving birth to me, and giving me some healthy eating habits.You get nothing from me, now. I wouldn’t even waste time spitting on your grave. I spend time writing about your ass, though. That’s for me, though.
I don’t want to admit that I have any love for you. At the very basic level, I do—it’s the generic love I give to all creatures, including you, my bosses, and Hitler. If I do have love, it’s only a generic “kid” love—the type of love that a naive, stupid child has for its breeders and caretakers, without really knowing who they are. Humans are born as dumb, helpless and naive. It’s a curse that we have to rely on dysfunctional people to teach us. Still, though, I think my soul gets a kick out of coming here over and over again.
Wait… Ok, back to the funeral. I need to focus on writing about the actual event. Feelings, thoughts, and other shit.
The day of the funeral, I remember seeing a lot of people. They were your coworkers and friends and relatives. They seemed concerned on how I was “handling” the death and asked me how I’m doing. I was suspicious. Did they really care or want to know? Or am I just supposed to give generic replies, much like how when people ask “How are you, today?” the reply is supposed to be “Good, How are you?” and anything else is considered awkward. Fake fake fake fucking fake. NO I am not ok, thank you very much. I am standing here wondering if you really did care about me, then where the hell were you all my life? Who are you, anyway? Why are you concerned for my welfare when I don’t even know your names? Just stop, and stop being fake. My dad’s an asshole and my mom’s in “Disney World.” Don’t act like this is the perfect, loving family. We’re not. We’re not a family at all. Fake love, fake feelings.
The food sucked. Generic, bland funeral food. Why not serve a grand, Hungarian feast, to celebrate your passing into the next life? Serve it in your favorite park or something. These people are so lame. No humor. They never realized death exists, right? It’s a fictional ending. We’re supposed to live forever in these bodies? LOL. Assholes in denial.
I remember people standing up at the podium. I pretended to be sad. How pathetic is that? Even I fake it. I fake it to be accepted. How many of us fake it? I wonder if we all act real, then we’ll realize we’re not alone. Or maybe that’s just a dream of mine. I’ve always wished for a place where I feel like I belong. I’ve felt like an outcast in the [paternal surname] family. When I try to be myself, I’m made out to be the black sheep. The only ones I get along with in the [paternal surname] family are the other black sheep like Uncle Ryan and [my aunt; my dad’s sister], but they’re not exactly healthy and functional. And Ryan’s dead now.
Ok, so at the funeral, they read religious shit, which was annoying, but I had to sit there anyway.
Oh yeah. Ok there’s the memory I’d forgotten. Here it is: My sister and my old friends showed up. I hadn’t spoken to them in a while, but maybe my sister had kept in contact or maybe her ex told them about the funeral. There was the hippie couple with their newborn, and the Irish guy, and the Scottish guy. The Scottish guy is an alcoholic and also my ex. [Note: in 2012, I met him again and he told me he was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia; he’s on meds but he constantly carries a gun around for safety. Funny enough, the thing that pissed me off the most this time was seeing that he is STILL a smoker, because I hate the smell of smoke]. It was more painful to see him there. Why was he there? To fake sympathy? If you’re so sympathetic, then why did you dump me, asshole? I’m glad he did, though. That would have sucked to be in a codependent relationship with an alcoholic.
So they all stood in the back. I was pissed. I’m not sure if I spoke to them. Maybe a brief “hello.”
I think I got mad at my dad for something. He wanted me to do something, I think I refused and went outside. That monster would get nothing from me. My hatred was at full blast towards him, at that point.
I don’t remember what he said, but I was pissed at him telling me what to do. I hate being controlled, so much! And he was my enemy. A monster in my eyes. A T-Rex [see posts about T-Rex dreams]. I felt invisible to him, too. Why doesn’t anyone ever see the real me?
I don’t understand why I am invisible and ignored by my own parents. It’s as if I don’t matter. I’m not important? Why did you tell me that you love me, if it was only a fantasy fairy tale that you were obsessed with and in love with?
Ok I “get” the anger work, now. Writing works for me.