Enough

You wrote me an apology today that was kind, sincere, and heartfelt, I believe. I wrote you back explaining the hurtful details of what happened when we were together, since you seemed not to remember what had taken place. I tried to be kind, but I also tried to be firm, saying I deserve to be treated with respect as a human being.

After crying my way through the email, I turned to YouTube to numb my pain. Jane Eyre and clips from a few other period dramas were my drug of choice this time. Instead of going to bed, I sat in an anxious trance, watching romances onscreen that I can only dream of.

I wish I wouldn't stay up so late after such an emotional encounter with you. I wish i could go to bed. But I guess it's what I've always done: I used to stay up late after you'd gone to bed, experiencing what I now name as anxiety. In middle school and high school picking at my acne became my way to pass hours at a time. A year ago I was in the throes of an addiction to junk food, binge eating my way to 140 pounds - too much for my small frame.

Now, in the restricting phase of my eating disorder, I sit and watch movies in silence, sometimes crying, other times transfixed with little notice of my heavy heart. I am glad of the escape while it lasts. When it is over, I start crying again.

What will she think, I wonder. Will she be able to understand what I've said? Was I harsh in any way? Was I unkind? I don't want to be unkind to you as you have been to me. I want to be clear about what I need from you as one human needs love from another. I want to be seen as worthy of your compassion at all times, even when you disagree with me.

I know you care about me, but you are so mistaken in how you treat me when I am with you. I love you so much; I can't help it. The tears flow so freely as I write about you.

I never let you see me cry anymore. It's too personal. But I do cry, I weep when I think of you. You, my mother, the one who has hurt me more than anyone else.

Why did you have to be so backward in your approach to me, your daughter? Why did God let this happen to me, to you? Why did He let you be so wounded as a child that you could not give love to me, an innocent recipient of your unpredictable bouts of tenderness and rage? I grieve what you must have experienced at the hands of your parents, and I grieve what I experience from you.

I have said, "Enough!" to you in so many words. I wonder if you will hear it. I wonder if you can change. If we are to have a relationship, you will need to change because I can't go on as before.

I wish I could write in more complete thoughts tonight. I have always cared about you, always wanted to see you happy. I realize now, though, that I can't make you happy. You will have to work on that yourself.

Goodnight, Mom. I wish I loved you less.