A letter to my mother (releasing raw anger)

Dear Mother,

You are a sad sack of shit, do you know that?

I have to write pretend letters to you because you’re such a fucking piece of work. Imagine a world where I could just call you, explain the pain I’m in, and you could hear me… console me. Imagine that.

You would say, “Oh my God, honey. I’m so sorry. I had no idea that *blank* had such an impact on you. What can I do now? Is there anything I can do to make it better?”

But that’s not what you say. What you say is:

“I NEVER said that. I would never say something like that! I can’t believe you would accuse me of such a thing! You’ve always had something wrong with you. Something wrong with your brain! You don’t remember things right.”

And then I say, “what about foster care and cps? Did I misremember that?”

And then you deflect and say, “All I know is don’t appreciate being accused of things I didn’t do!”

And so we go round and round and round and round in these stupid circles that are fun for you. They’re fun for you because you’re bored. You’re bored because you’re empty inside. You’re empty inside because you’re fucking disgusting and everyone knows it. So you beat up on kids because every adult in your life has at some point seen what a fucking creep you are, but a child can be molded. A child will cry for you, even still.

You make my skin crawl.

What is it like, being just the fucking worst?

What is it like to have nothing and no one except your youngest daughter that you groomed diligently to be your little lap dog, codependent forever until you die and she’s left all alone, 50 and childless, friendless, spouseless…? Because you taught her that no one was to be trusted except you, when you are the one who shouldn’t be trusted under any circumstance? Mama and baby forever in love 🥰 so you have someone to take you to your doctors appointments, someone not too busy with a husband or a child. You encouraged her to have her uterus removed, didn’t you, Mama? At such a tender age. Under the guise of being supportive—ohh the pain, the pain her uterus was causing her! Whatever. I can’t ever know what fuckery you put in her precious little head, you sick, sick piece of shit.

I had a flashback today.

Remember when you accused me of having “butt sex” as you called it? You burst through my door in a sobbing rage, waving my Goofy and Mickey underwear around. I was barely 12 years old.

”Oh my GOD! Oh my GOD!! I can’t believe this!! Oh my God! Katy! Explain this!!!!!”

”explain what?”

”Youve been having BUTT SEX!! Why is there blood here?!? Oh my GODDDD!”

”Mama… what? What do you mean? That’s just period blood. I don’t understand!”

”Katy, who has been touching you here… in your butt. That’s the only way blood could be here!!!”

After going around and round I realized I had just worn my underwear backwards, which strangely was a thing I did a lot. I think it’s because I didn’t have any guidance most of my life. It took me a long time to figure out there was a front and a back to underwear. Maybe it was this moment that taught me. When I was 10 I remember wearing the same underwear for 3 weeks straight until they started to itch and I washed them myself. I thought you would be proud, mama! Another thing taken off your all too heavy plate.

I digress.

You loved me in a weird way, didn’t you Mama? Kind of like a lover. Kind of like a child. Kind of like a friend. Kind of like a prisoner.

You loved me when I was beautiful, until I was too beautiful. Then I looked like a whore. You loved me when I did things for you, but you secretly hated how capable I was.

You. Disgusting human.

I have so much more to say but I have to stop now. I hope that you have a stroke and you lay in bed in some horrible old folk’s home—because you are out of your fucking mind if you think Jamie is going to take care of you, you fool!—I hope you have to lay there for years and years, immobile and think about all the repulsive things you’ve done and why no one is there for you now while you piss yourself and weep.

I gave you every opportunity, and you just couldn’t be a real person. You couldn’t give up the game.

I know that when you are sick and all alone you will cry for me; the only daughter who truly cared for you, despite everything. Yet at the end, you chose to turn on me, to rip me to shreds, continue to whip me, when we could have moved on and been better together.

Fuck you.