Things My Mother Never Told Me
You never told me I’d still be conflicted over you at age thirty-three. That I’d feel sorry for you and your mental illness, but not trust you to hold my one and a half year old son. Since I was taken from you at age four, I’ve only seen you on three occasions and I spent each in fear. I fear you’ll hurt me again, reopening the loosely stitched wounds you so long ago inflicted. I fear I’ll hate you for the lifelong damage your actions have caused to my psyche, my heart, my relationships. I fear that I won’t. I fear loving you and wanting to help you. You’re unsafe, yet you’re frail and fragile, hurting and broken. You’re reflective and introspective just like me. I see you observing. I hurt for you. I hurt for me. Today was probably the last time I’ll see you. You know it too. Your brother-in-law said the four medications you take to manage the schizophrenia make you tired, so it was time to end our vis...