The Mother Behind The Mask.

Disclaimer: This letter contains references to sexual assault, self-harm, suicide (attempted), drug use (implied), domestic violence, and miscarriage. Please read with care.

You always said I was too sensitive. But maybe I was just the only one paying attention.

Growing up, I constantly wondered why I wasn’t enough for you to love. I watched you raise my brothers like they were extensions of your soul, while I was treated like the mistake you had to endure. Whenever I tried to talk about how you raised me, I was met with excuses, “We were kids raising a kid” was your favorite line. But when I was 23, you finally said it out loud: I was your “screw-up child.” You told me you learned how to parent by doing everything wrong with me. You laughed. I shattered. That moment redefined everything I thought I understood about our relationship.

It’s a strange ache, realizing your first bully was your own mother. While my friends had role models, I had a blueprint for everything I never wanted to become. But the cruel irony is that the harder you try not to be like someone, the more like them you become. You taught me that cutting people off was how we handle discomfort, and here I am, no contact. You taught me to suppress my emotions, to default to anger, and now I’m angrier than ever, with an avoidant personality I didn’t ask for.

You used to say I was “acting like a bitch” when I was 12, 13, 14 years old. And when I cried, hurt by your words, you’d say, “I didn’t call you a bitch, I said you were acting like one.” I don’t know if you still need to hear this, but they’re the same goddamn thing.

Let’s talk about the moments that rewired my brain while they were just another Tuesday for you. These are only the major ones, there are too many to count.

In middle school, I started self-harming. I left my hoodie in home ec, and the teachers saw my arms. They called the counselor, who called you. I begged them not to. I knew your reaction wouldn’t be comforting. They told me you’d understand. They were wrong. You got angry. Said it was stupid. Said I was doing it for attention. That I had no reason to hurt myself. That my friends were to blame, even though they had no idea. You didn’t ask why. You didn’t comfort me. You just made it about you.

In high school, I got my first job. I came home from the interview, excited, I’d been offered the position on the spot. Instead of celebrating, you asked me to roll up my sleeves. You wanted to check for track marks. I hadn’t touched drugs or alcohol. But you jumped straight to heroin. I got defensive, confused, and you got angrier. I don’t think you ever liked me. My brothers were older, and somehow you figured out how to love them. Why not me?

Then I was raped. First semester of college. Freshly 18. I told one person. I started skipping classes, failing. When you found out, you cared more about my grades than my trauma. You told me it wasn’t a big deal. To get over it. Even after therapy. Even after being prescribed antidepressants. I was supposed to stay at your house in case the meds made me suicidal. Instead, you made comments about how it “wasn’t that bad.” I still don’t understand how you call yourself a mother after that.

Later that year, I lost a baby. The first of ten in eight years. I called my aunt to go to the ultrasound. Called her again when I started bleeding. You were angry I didn’t call you first. Not concerned. Not supportive. Just angry. You made it about you. Again. I never told you about another one. Confiding in you became unsafe.

Then came the relationship with my daughter’s father. You knew he had a history of domestic violence. You knew. For two years. You went with me to my first OB appointment and saw the scratches on my face. You heard me lie to the doctor. You said nothing. You didn’t advocate for me when I couldn’t advocate for myself. I almost died. I almost took my own life. The only reason I didn’t was because he busted down the bathroom door and flushed the pills. You knew. And you did nothing.

It wasn’t until I held my daughter for the first time that I understood: you may be my blood, but you were never my mother. Mothers are supportive, not just financially, which you love to hold over my head, but emotionally. They are warm, present, compassionate. You are judgmental, cold, selfish, narcissistic.

If I could choose again, I wouldn’t choose you. As harsh as that sounds, I’d rather take my chances with someone else than relive this life with you. You were my first bully. My least understanding role model. The last person I’d go to for advice. The last person I’d confide in. And certainly the last person I’d ever want to be like.

I love you because you’re my mother. But I have no desire to ever be a mother like you.