Tired

I am tired of being your daughter.

Today you sent me a text suggesting that I ask my brother and sister-in-law's opinion about the apartment I'm thinking of renting. You recommended I check with them about the location, parking, and cleanliness.

I'm 30 years old, but I think your added comment that I have a good head on my shoulders was your attempt to acknowledge the fact that I'm an adult. In fact, I'm almost the age you were when you become a mother.

But you didn't stop with the vote of confidence. "I don't want to say too much," you wrote, "so I won't say anymore."

You ended the text with what felt like a jab - a reminder that our relationship is not what it could be. A reminder that you think you annoy me. A reminder that you think that I'm hypercritical of you, that whatever you say is the wrong thing.

Let me confirm your fears. You say the wrong thing. You don't show compassion to me; you are so insecure that you cannot interact with me without thinking of yourself. You are so insecure that I have to coach you to use your words when you talk to me, rather than shutting down like a child in tantrum mode.

You are "weird," as you yourself said in a moment of anger just a couple days ago. Yes. You are weird. You are not in your right mind. You never have been.

I reject you as a mother.

I wish I could reject you. I wish I could be done with you, I wish I could get you out of my head. When I think of you, I think how I've disappointed you by not being the daughter you always wanted. I think if I could just try next time I see you to be more patient with you, more loving, more forgiving - if only I could be perfect for you, you wouldn't be upset.

It's classic abuse, really. I am still trying to protect you, trying to care for you and make you happy. You've never been happy, or if you have it's not been for long. It's been wild happiness, weird happiness, somehow fake and somehow very dangerous.

I can't even call it abuse. I don't know what to call it. You are sick. You are sick, and I am tired of trying to make you better.

I'm tired of trying to love you when I actually hate you.

I wish I didn't hate you, but I do. You disgust me. I wish I'd never been born to you. I wish you and Dad had never gotten married. I wish Dad had married someone else so that he could be happy, so that he could retire earlier instead of supporting you and your neurotic illness, whatever it is.

Are you bipolar? Do you have a personality disorder? What is wrong with you? I wish I had a name for whatever you have.

I read a book 4 years ago about living with a borderline, and it rang so true I gave it to Dad. He hid it somewhere in the office at your house.

"Stop Walking on Eggshells" - that was the title. I am tired of walking on eggshells with you. I give up. If I could get over the guilt of cutting you out of my life, I would. If only.

I feel sorry for you so I keep coming back to you. I envision you alone without your children around you, and I pity you. I think of how ungrateful we are not to make a big deal of your birthday or Mother's Day, but the fact is, I hate Mother's Day. The last two years I've gotten so depressed I couldn't get out of bed. Every year, it comes too soon.

I wish I could stop feeling sorry for you so that I could move on with my life. I am exhausted from trying to understand you.

I hate you.