Mom

Mom, I know that we don’t see the world the same way, I could never see your view because mine was stuck on replay. I was that hurt little girl, and it took me years to understand that you taught me survival through silence, and that only made my hurt expand. I was angry at you for that for many years, because I needed to be heard, but because of the fear of being dismissed and of what I was taught, I never said a word. I learned that silence kept the peace and was a way to get by. I learned that silence held our relationship together, so I didn’t have to try. Although it was lonely and silence meant hurt, I learned that the loneliness felt safe, even though part of me felt like dirt. Silence and loneliness became my best friend. You believed strength meant being silent, moving on, or to pretend. I found healing in telling my truth, and that is how our relationship will mend. Because I see that you learned how to go along and be silent— that’s how you functioned. I’m not writing to blame or change you, only to stop pretending and changing myself. I’m freeing that little girl by telling the truth and embracing my mental health. See, we can both exist in our truths even if they don’t align. I understand now that it’s okay, and that your truth doesn’t have to match mine. Mom, I know that we’ve had our differences— lots of yelling and screaming in the past, but I don’t want to hold on to the pain anymore. I don’t want this hurt to last. You’re a strong woman. You worked a lot to help your children, and I see you— I see who you are, I see what you try to hide, and I see what you’ve been through. I needed you, and I know that nobody’s perfect, but I couldn’t comprehend that in my mind. So for so many years, part of me searched for something out of you that I’d never find. I had expectations of what a mother should be, and I thought all I wanted was for you to be there. But you were there. Maybe not how I wanted— but what I wanted from you wasn’t fair. I wanted you to bring home my dad from prison, and to take away all my hurt, sadness, and pain. I wanted you to give me a different family, one that didn’t hurt me, and to erase the trauma from my brain. What I wanted was a miracle that you couldn’t give me— and now I see, that to have inner peace I must forgive and let it be. So I release the need for you to be, do, see, or understand things my way. I honor myself by owning my voice, telling my truth, and having integrity in what I say. And now, Mom, we can begin a new chapter. One where we both feel whole, free, at peace, and at rest. In this new chapter, we learn honesty as we heal on our new quest