- A letter to my mother that she will never read how to#
- A letter to my mother that she will never read full#
Children who suffer in silence, just like me … and just like you.
A letter to my mother that she will never read how to#
Below the surface, they don’t love themselves, and they don’t know how to love their children. Some are sick and fighting their own demons.
I wish I’d known back then that not all mothers are good. In fact, I even thought that my life was quite normal. I was unable to tell anyone about my family life because mothers were believed to be made of pure gold. The worst memory of my childhood and young adulthood was feeling lonely. What would I tell to a younger me if I could meet her today? To help her and other youth quietly suffering in their dysfunctional families to see the truth, relieve their pain, and encourage them to enjoy their lives more. Sometimes I wish I could meet a younger me and tell her what I know today. We didn’t have psychologists in schools to help us make sense out of the distorted reality of our homes. We understand that children, too, suffer from anxiety and depression-something that in my “happy” childhood was unthinkable to suggest. We no longer stigmatize people with emotional problems and mental illnesses. And trauma celebrates its new victory on their account.īut it doesn’t have to continue, because today we know so much more. Why? Because they either don’t know how to change it, don’t dare to, or lack the necessary resources and support to break the pattern.Īs a result, new generations of kids grow up suffering, feeling unloved. And I see that history repeats itself: Women like my mom pass on their family’s legacy of abuse. I’ve lived long enough to learn a great deal about human psychology I even made it my profession. It took a debilitating illness for her to tear down the mighty walls she’d built around her soul and embrace the love that had always smouldered in her heart It took me decades to heal and forgive Mom. When I grew older, we fought and struggled, hurting one another in an attempt to protect the scared and lonely little girl inside each of us. When I was little, she treated me like her property, as if she owned me-my body, my thoughts, and my feelings. Always.īut for a significant part of my life, I wasn’t even sure that Mom wanted me. She kept these letters because they were vital to her.
A letter to my mother that she will never read full#
They were full of compassion I didn’t realize Mom possessed. The letters were imbued with love, like a forest glade with sunshine on a hot summer day. I read these letters with tears streaming down my cheeks like two spring creeks down the hill. Letters she wrote but never sent-I will never know why. And even if she’d known, she wouldn’t be able to read them because of her illness.īut the most profound emotional moment of all was still waiting to come: letters from Mom to a younger me. Seventy years of Mom’s memories written on paper she didn’t even remember she had. A few envelopes from my son, whom Mom loved deeply, in a way she could never love me. My letters to Mozambique, where my parents worked in the early 1980s, and postcards from my travels. And emotional messages from me, sent from a summer camp to the address I knew by heart since I was three. Letters from Mom’s ex-boyfriends, before my father’s time (why did I always assume that she didn’t have any?). Written in his clumsy, dear handwriting, and Mom’s short replies underneath, her handwriting as neat as always. Sweet notes penned by my dad at age twenty-one to Mom at the hospital, where she was recovering after a complicated delivery of their only child … me. These deeply personal belongings took me on an emotional roller coaster ride a few months long. And at the very end, the most private part of Mom’s life, something I’d been avoiding for as long as I could: photographs, letters, diaries, and notes. Tableware, sewing utensils, knitting needles and thread. “Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts, and don’t put up with people that are reckless with yours.” ~Mary SchmichĪfter Mom passed away two years ago, I returned home to take care of the remnants of her earthly life.Ĭlothes and shoes, books with her notes in the margins, old cookware and medication leftovers.
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