Dear Diary:
This is the final time I'll be writing because I'm planning on ending everything but this is an entry for my mom and I hope she sees it. I hope she finds this. And I hope it rips her heart out as much as it does mine.
I don't hate you. No child truly hates their parent. I know that you think I do but I don't, even if I should. I can't call you mom because you aren't a mom even if you are my mother. I did call you mom for many years before I knew what a 'mom' was. The problem is that you are not a true parent and I don't think you can ever be. At Least not to me.
Fifteen. Fifteen is the number of years I've been on this planet. I spent the first twelve years with the idea that you not being around was the way most families were. I had plenty of schoolmates with divorced parents who weren't very involved in their lives. I thought I was lucky that my parents were still together and I got to at least see you every day. I thought I was lucky until I began to get around other whole families. I saw how their mothers would send them notes in their lunches and always tell them they loved them when they got out of the car for school. I saw their mothers at every little league game and practice with a smile on their face and a shirt with their kids' number and 'mom' printed on the back. I saw how involved their mothers were and I realized just how much mine wasn't.
I know you saw everything else but me as your top priority, especially your baby father, your other children and your job. I understand that you had to validate your worth by working a very laborious job. You owned your own business and was the best at what you do but you put work over me, over everything.
I also know that you knew I was being raped by father and kept silent. I heard you telling him that you knew. And I'm sick to my stomach. No matter how much you hated me, the love you had or should have for me, should've done something. You would get up at four AM and drive to the city before I was even awake. It wasn't till late that you got home and when you did you were tired and just needed to lie down. Your work and husband were your life. You loved what you did and I respect that but they destroyed you and you ended up destroying an innocent fifteen year old.
Your work blew your back out when I was 6 months old and started taking pain medication. You didn't stop until I was fifteen. You say that you wish you could have taken time to spend with me as a child. In reality, you had the chance. You and dad both did, but I wasn't a priority. Your priorities were them, not me. I hate to sound selfish. Actually, I'm not selfish. You were the selfish one.
You've always blamed your distance because of the way you were raised. Yes, your mother is a bitch—to you. Grandma's pretty good to me. I can contest that but I cannot contest you being any better. The only aspect I saw that was any better than her parenting was that you cared less rather than too much. We didn't hug. We didn't kiss. We didn't comfort each other. We did not physically touch in a caring way. It took me a long time to learn that touching can be comforting and yours still feels alien to me. The same goes for emotional comfort. You taught me that I did not need other people to comfort me because I learned to do it on my own. I know this can be a good thing but it also made me very secluded. I didn't want to open up and show emotions because I had always dealt with it on my own. I don't show emotions. I can't show emotions. I can't share my emotions. I'm still not comfortable with being comforted but you bet your ass that I know how to comfort others who need it.
You've never been able to think before you speak. You say I'm sensitive or that I need a sense of humor but in reality, you are the one that needs a filter...or a muzzle. You never thought about how words can truly hurt a person, especially when it comes from their own parent. Jokes about weight are not okay. EVER. You don't understand how horrible it is that you would call out my weight as a chubby prepubescent child. The older I got the worse I got. Your comments on working out and losing a few pounds does not make anything any better. You almost pushed me into an eating disorder but I had the strength to stop before I was sucked in like you had been. And many times before, just like now, you've pushed me to suicide. It still doesn't help when you constantly complain about how fat you were when you gained twenty pounds on your hundred pound frame even after everyone says you look more healthy now. Demeaning me doesn't help either. Calling me a 'bitch', 'asshole', or any demeaning name, even jokingly, is not okay. I was bullied by my mother more than I ever had been by peers.
You always found a way to use me.And as soon as I could take public transportation by myself, I knew what this meant. I knew I'd become the responsible one. I'd do your errands and go wherever you wanted to go. You recruited me to be a DD at every get together. I was expected to do things that you could easily have done yourself. I was the host of parties putting on fake smiles when deep down everything was eating at me. I stayed in the kitchen cutting cheese and making hors d'oeuvres at fifteen years old. I should've been doing other things but I was stuck being your servant— everyone's servant instead of being a child— your child while everyone else was living their childhood.
I forgive you for all the wrongs you have done even if I shouldn't. I can forgive you for the past but I won't for the future. I'm leaving soon and you'll be in my past. I always said I'd use you as an example of what I shouldn't be as a parent when I decide to have children but I won't even get to that point. I'm not good enough for any of that.
I hope you know how you and dad ruined me. You both took everything from me. I was grown by a liar, a cheat, an abuser, a rapist and everything bad. I'm done. I'm over it. I hope it makes everyone happy. You always told me that I'm the worst thing that ever happened to you— so now, I hope this will be the best.