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 visit, yet you still asked, “You wouldn’t want to go get some lunch would you?”
  
“I really have to get Koa home for nap time. Sorry,” I replied.    

How do I look into your eyes, eyes that mirror mine, with hatred?  I wish I could either forgive you or forget you.  Why can’t I hate you?

You never told me I’d be crying long past the sexual abuse and neglect had stopped.  I’m angry your sickness can be managed, when I’ve sustained injuries for which there is no medication.  I feel a deep sadness for you, one that is profoundly reminiscent of the sadness I feel for the small blonde girl in the too-small purple shoes, alone and not good enough.  Never good enough. You haven’t told me in the countless letters and phone calls I didn’t want to answer, what I need to hear.  You’ve never admitted how you’ve hurt me.  Do you even know?  You never told me you were sorry.

My pain is confusing and cyclical.  People say having a child of my own must make it even harder to understand you because I would lay down my life to protect my son.  This is true.  How could you? But the opposite is also true.  Despite you never telling me, I know it was your sickness that hurt me, not your soul.  My love for my son has taught me that if I had a sickness which caused me to repeatedly injure him and ultimately lose him, my regret and emptiness would be infinite.  I sympathize with the pain you must be feeling.  But if it were my actions which damaged my perfect baby, I would spend my days lamenting, loudly!  My letters would be weighted by apologies and wrinkled by tears.  My phone calls wouldn’t be about the weather.

I wish I could either forgive you or forget you.  Why can’t I hate you?  You never told me you were sorry.   

Until then, goodbye.