Where to start... Father, you were never there. You were an alcoholic. I can count on my hands how many days of my life you were sober. I don't blame you too much. Mom is a bitch and I would've stayed drunk too. You attempted to love me and care for me the best you could. Perhaps a bit too much with regards to the memories I feverishly repress. I needed you dad. I needed you to protect me from her. And when my illness started to awaken, you didn't understand, you didn't even try. I was just some rebellious teen that needed to get her shit together. You never saw that even as a small child I was withering away without the tender nurturing a young child needs and craves. I have no happy childhood memories. Fleeting glimpses of moments of levity. That's it. But let's move on to the root.
Mother. Should I even call you that? Do you deserve it? You may have given birth to me, but you are not a mother. No mother I will ever claim. You are the woman my siblings and I refer to as "her" or sometimes "your mother". Bet you didn't know that. Even my older brother and sister that you didn't even raise know what you are. And let's take a moment to reflect upon that. My brother and sister were from your first marriage. You were such a poor example of a parent that you lost custody of my young siblings to their father in the 60's! The 60's! What mother lost custody of her children in court in the 60's? Doesn't that say something? You failed them and you failed me. Perhaps actually they were saved. They were better off without you and thrived with their loving father. I'm sure he wasn't perfect. You spent decades telling me stories of his atrocities as a husband. But he was a good father and you will never take that away from him. I even remember the first time I met George. I was very young. I remember asking you if he was my second dad. I may not remember your words, but I clearly remember your reaction. I was young, I didn't understand. But as an an adult I now understand that you lack grace in character. He is a kind gentle man that has always treated me with a love and respect I never got from you. How does that make you feel? It makes me feel like shit that my own mother couldn't love me or respect me when a man who owed me nothing did. And here's the best part about George; while he never sang your praises to the heavens, he was always respectful with regards to you. His words were not always kind regarding his relationship with you, but he showed so much respect for me, kindness, tenderness, that even when I spoke ill of you, he turned the other cheek. How does that sit with you?
Let's get back to my childhood. To Mother and Father. So dad drank. A lot. We've established that. And why not? You are a miserable controlling bitch. The irony is that this relationship worked for you both. Forget me. You both got what you needed. My father needed someone to take care of him. Someone to feed him, dress him, put his passed out ass to bed, to pick up his drunk ass up from the bar. And you served his every need. You loved it. Loved the control. Craved it like a junky craves heroin. My sister cited at his funeral "we don't know if Carolyn bitched because Ole drank, or if Ole drank because Carolyn bitched." Sadly poignant. I'm not blaming you mother for his alcoholism, but you were the perfect, textbook example of an enabler. And you loved it. What is really laughable is your imagined control of him. Hiding bottles, locking liquor cabinets, watering down drinks, all in the name of control. But on the weekends, as you and I sat watching the beginning of the football games, we could here him cracking open a bottle of whatever was accessible and quietly pouring it into his freshly rinsed out coffee mug. I knew. You knew. But like all dirty little secrets, we both pretended we didn't know what was going on. And then the parties... birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve... Oh how you played the part of the shocked but understanding wife when dad was escorted stumbling to the car. They all knew. They were your best friends. And they played their parts as well. And I have a few words for them as well, but later. Such a charade.
Oh childhood. What an absolutely horrendous time for me. If I only knew what impending doom was coming my way, I might of appreciated those moments of fleeting happiness more, held on a little tighter hoping they stuck. Dad drank. You bitched. Actually as I recall very clearly as a small child, you fought, loudly and somewhat violently. I cried myself to sleep every night praying to a God I knew nothing of because you never introduced me to any sort of religion or spirituality. I prayed for it all to stop. I prayed for your happiness together. Then, one night, you heard me, and came to check on me. I clearly remember telling you I wanted you and dad to get a divorce so you would stop fighting and be happy. One of the quirks of my warped, twisted brain is that to protect itself it has completely blocked some memories and others replay as if they just occurred. That night I clearly recall as if yesterday. You actually consoled me to the best of your ability and promised it wouldn't ever happen again. It didn't. Not because the problem was solved, but because you chose to bury the secret deeper. But did that solve anything? Did things get better? No. I learned from you that when things were not pretty, you hid them. You buried your dirty little secrets so no one could see them. You didn't speak of them. Because if you pretend it doesn't exist, then it doesn't, right?
Let's move on to my teens shall we. This is where your facade, my facade, started to truly show signs of fracture. I did everything I could my entire life to please you. Impress you. I never could. I was your project. Your way of showing the world you could raise a perfect child. So I had to be perfect. I tried so very hard in every way. I always tried to impress you with my knowledge only for you to illustrate that you were smarter. Well of course you were. I was a child. But you never gave me a chance. And then there was the benchmark. My brother and sister. And what a benchmark they were. They flourished throughout school, became thriving adults starting their own families, everything I strived to be, just to make you happy. But I wasn't happy. I never learned to be happy with who I was. I played a role. I was an actor in your play and I always played second fiddle. Nothing every impressed you. You never showed pride in my accomplishments unless you could claim the praise. So I was nothing. I was a shell of a human. I never developed as a person. I only ever mimicked what I thought you wanted me to be in my never ending quest to make you happy. A fruitless effort to be sure.
I didn't know at the time, even with my early hospitalisation as a teen, nor did the doctors recognise what was wrong with me. I was young, only sixteen. I had a complete mental break from reality. I only remember bits then waking in the hospital in a daze how many hours or even days later. Not understanding where I was or what had happened. My first complete mental breakdown. I'm pretty sure the only reason I got help at all was because I was suicidal and in a severe depression. However the doctors didn't know what it was or what to call it. They went on your information. I was smart. I was successful in school. I played the role you created. I don't even think the doctors knew then what I was or what to call it. I was a Borderline. I subjugated every instinct I had as an individual to please you. I had no identity. I became whoever and whatever I needed to be to survive the situation. It wasn't until some twenty odd years later I was properly diagnosed.
I have some clear memories of this time. Us sitting in the psychiatrists office discussing my issues. Me attempting to bring up my problems with you and dad. You quickly nipped that in the bud. I was a bad seed. No child of yours would have these thoughts or feelings. The doctors didn't help. I was once again treated like a naughty teen in need of a spanking, and that was it. So I once again, I repressed and conformed. Did what I was told and what was expected. I became no better.
Let's speak of my relationships with men. So I was sixteen and fresh out of the psych ward that helped none whatsoever (just a waste of my time and as you always like to point out, my college tuition). Was it any surprise at this point I latched onto Jamie? He filled a void you never did and also offered the numbing substances available to ease my inner turmoil. What's interesting is that though he was the bad influence (much older and supplying me with drugs and alcohol at 16) but I was the one in control! I'm sure in some way he loved me. I played a role then, your role. I controlled him and used sex as my weapon. That's how I learned a relationship should work. You find an easy target and then use, abuse, manipulate, whatever it took to make them yours. I woke up one day and realised how boring he was and walked away. But all my boyfriends after were similar in the respect that I picked men I could manipulate. I quickly learned what kind of woman they wanted and became the character. I made men fall in love with me over night. Of course they all fell in love with fiction. Because I didn't exist. I had no soul, no identity. In reflection, I feel sorry for my actions, but they weren't really my actions. I was nothing. Nobody. I was what you created. An atrocity.
I'm an adult now and have been through years of therapy, on every psych med known to man it seems, abused a lot of drugs, screwed a lot of men, attempted suicide, and have studied my illnesss at length to better understand myself. To know why I am the way I am. After coming out of my "dark period" (three years of hell I barely survived), I somehow managed to crawl out of my swirling cesspool and clawed my way back to something resembling a normal life. People ask me how I did it, and I honestly have no idea. The devil himself told me I didn't have the intestinal fortitude to survive the world I had been lured into, but he was wrong. I survived. And to some extent I've thrived.
Here's the thing though mom, even though I seem to have a picture perfect life now, behind my smile my illness still stirs. And it has recently been awakened and is pulling me towards the darkness. I'm using every tool I know to fight it. But it's there, lurking in the shadows, haunting my nights and days. And I am now feeling something I never fully experienced before... RAGE. I have so much rage towards you it literally feels like my insides are being ripped apart. I hate what you created. And I will never be able to get rid of it. When you die, I will still live with the nightmare. And when you die, I will not care. In fact, I will be happy that I no longer have to dread the anxiety of speaking to you. People who don't understand my illness will say to just "let you go" and "get over it". But those who know, who understand, know that will never happen. I wish it were that simple. It's not.
Mother, you will never read this and Father is already dead. Perhaps I'll put a copy in your casket so you can rot and burn with my words for eternity. Maybe then I'll find peace.
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