I posted a raw, open letter to my mother today on Coffee House Writers. It was an emotional rollercoaster to write and leaves me very vulnerable. I was literally crying my heart out as I wrote the first draft.
I have gotten many people to look at it and help me shape it into what it is. I want to thank all of those who have helped me organize my thoughts, given me praise and advice on how to make it better and more things to talk about.
It is a long post at over 2,000 words, but I couldn’t find a place to split it up. And I don’t think it could be in the first place.
I hope you enjoy the piece. You can find the rest of it here.
Why You Won’t Get A Mother’s Day Card: An Open Letter To My Mom
I wanted to let you know you won’t be getting a card this year for Mother’s Day. There are plenty of reasons. Here are a few.
You play favorites with my brother and me. He has been and always will be your favorite. I don’t know why this is, but it hurts. When I need help, you brush me off and tell me to figure it out on my own. I am only twenty-one and I am now finding my footing in the real world. It’s unrealistic to expect me to not need help with housing or money at this age. My brother is the same age, and when he needs help you rush to his aide. You justify this by saying we’re different people and need different things. But I have a severe mental illness: schizoaffective disorder, bipolar, and anxiety. Every second of every day I hear voices that feel real but aren’t. I can’t go out in public without fearing a mental breakdown and panic attack. My brother has a high functioning form of autism. His symptoms are trouble focusing and reading body language. I have always envied my brother because of the special treatment and extra love and help that he got.
I remember the time he had an internship at a local radio station. He had to be at the internship at ten in the morning and both you and Dad were working. You asked me to drive him. I said no because I was in a bout of depression and had been sleeping until one or two in the afternoon. I couldn’t deal with you picking fights all day and couldn’t force myself to get up and do the things I needed to do. Thinking about getting out of bed and having to face the world exhausted me. I didn’t have the mental or physical energy to deal with anyone or anything. Sleeping was my way of coping. You should understand. You slept through almost every afternoon due to your depression. We weren’t allowed to bother you when you slept 36 hours. When you asked me to drive him, I didn’t want to make a promise I couldn’t keep. But you didn’t understand. Instead, you retaliated by telling me that having a car and a license was a privilege and that I could take the bus. When I asked why my brother couldn’t take the bus your exact words were, “End of conversation.” [Read More].