dear mother, this is my letter to you.
i would like to start this letter off by saying that i didn’t know who to address it to.
“mother” is a term that i hold dearly,
a term many use simply and with abandon.
thoughtlessly throwing the term around,
bestowing the title upon their friends’ mothers,
like they’re their second family.
for years the term has encumbered me,
chained me to a wall where the shackles have rusted into my wrists.
my arms have gone limp from pulling at them from either trying to get away or trying to get back to you.
my mother.
but lately,
i’ve found that mother is a term of endearment.
a complete bond of trust and love that i’m suppose to feel but haven’t for years.
and lately,
mother,
it’s because you haven’t been a mother.
and maybe...
maybe that sounds dramatic and cold and cruel and just downright unfair.
because you gave birth to me right?
because your idea of love is different but it’s still love, faith and ******* you can’t do this to your sisters do you know what my mother did to me you can take it
but i can’t mother.
mom.
i can’t take it mom.
you’ve taken so much from me.
you’ve stolen my health.
my ability to trust.
my ability to love.
you’ve stolen the compassion from my bones and you’ve robbed me of my childhood and i never got to recklessly throw myself into something that doesn’t matter because it doesn’t matter and i never got to live,
mama
i never got to live.
you’ve already given me guilt,
guilt that i already had.
guilt upon guilt upon guilt upon guilt
and you never stopped to think that this hurts me too?
not even once?
you think i slide through life, laughing because i have another mother who was better than you?
the funny thing is,
mama
is that she is better than you.
and it hurts me even more that she’s better than you.
because you gave birth to me.
you gave me life.
the breath in my lungs.
the heart in my chest and the brain in my head.
yet she’s the one that made it beat and she’s the one that gave me thought and she’s the one that breathes for me when i can’t.
because janda,
janda,
you should’ve done that for me.
not her.
you should’ve done that.
but you didn’t.
so i’m letting you go,
because you didn’t fight to stay.
you didn’t fight to change.
because i’m just like everyone else.
because how can you be my mother when you never treated me like your daughter.
i love you.
and i’ll always love you,
but i can’t love you like this.
not anymore.
sincerely, faith marino.
these are the last words i’ll ever say to my mother, even though she’ll never hear them.
