Worthy

Mother,

I struggle to begin writing this. I know you will never read this. I know that even if you did, you would not ever dream these thoughts were written about you. But I need to let this out. I need to let go. I need to let go of the dreams I have. The image I have for the mother I want you to be. It has been 23 years and I do not think this mother is ever coming. Instead, I live through my mother-in-law. She invites me out. She asks to spend time with me. She begs me to come over for breakfast, brunch, lunch, dinner, anything. We make cookies together. We get our nails done. I am creating the memories I wish you and I had. This was enough for me. I swore it was. But then, you managed to twist the knife you placed in my heart years ago deeper. Memories of being called a bitch, an inconvenience, selfish, an asshole, and more tumble into my brain. I sit here crying over my keyboard, wishing I was better. Wishing you would love me like you love your firstborn.

When will I be worthy enough for you? When will my successes be enough? I sit here and watch as you cannot meet my gaze. You never do, not when you’re making up an excuse. Today the excuse was that you wanted to be near your mother. How could I argue with that? However, I see Grandma on her phone, taking a nap, or going to her brother’s house. Or worse, I see you doing your own thing, sleeping, watching TV. These tasks apparently provide more joy than 40 minutes of walking the animals. 40 minutes of having time to ourselves, something we haven’t done in years. Then I see my brother come into the house. Everything changes. The phone is placed down. You run out to the backyard to hug him and say hello. Where was my dramatic entry? Where was my dramatic hug?

Yesterday, I texted the entire family to chat about my new job. A job that I am so proud of. Today, you look me straight and say, “Anything new?”. When I responded with, “I texted you about it yesterday,.” You could not even lie and say, “Oh yea!”. No. Instead, I was met with, “AH well, no news is good news” So much for this promotion. So much for me being second in the chain of command at a job I’ve only had for a year. No, instead, you wait until the table of full of people. I mention my job to them. You jump in, “I am so proud of you,” “I am so lucky to be your mother,” “I wonder who raised you like this,” or “I wonder where you got this from.” Every sentence about you. Every sentence starts with “I.” You consume all my accomplishments for yourself. The conversation shifts. I am forgotten. Unworthy of the attention of the table.

How can someone who was never around “raise” me? How can someone who never bothers driving the four minutes to my house say they are lucky to be my mother? How can someone I call out for not trying only to say, “You know I don’t like driving,” makes me feel so powerless? You are my mother. You are supposed to be my supporter, my friend, my protector. Traits I have never felt. Instead, I was told to be my older brother’s protector, supporter, and friend. Instead, I was to accept my brother stealing my belongings, hitting me over the head with vases, locking me out of your life, or worse. I must praise and support the boy who breaks into the house, trashes everything, breaks all our photographs, and threatens to kill you. Still, I must sit by and hear you praise him. Praise him for being everything you want in a child. Praise him for his personality. I am to sit back while the only appraisal I receive is that you raised me to be smart and accomplished.

Appraisal that you steal for yourself. Appraisal that is not for you. You did not raise me. You are not why I did well in school. You are only allowed that credit if you accept that you pushed me away. You pushed me to run toward stability and joy. Pushed me until I found that in school. That’s why I succeeded. I am accomplished because while I was doing my math homework, you had me do my brother’s homework. paid me $20 bucks to pass his online math classes. I was forced to teach myself math two years ahead of where I was. Forced to teach myself history, science, and math. Everything to allow him to pass and graduate high school.

Now I am mean, cranky, a bitch because I do not talk to him. However, you don’t realize the memories that have traumatized me. Memories that will haunt me and build a voice in my head, making me hate myself. Do you even remember? Do you remember in the middle of Olive Garden playing Concentration? Our table wait was almost an hour. I just wanted to play Concentration 64 like we had done when I was little. The game is nothing more than a category. We would go around and each says one thing that fits the category. Easy. Simple. Or so I thought. Instead, my 11-year-old self had to listen to you and my brother, your child, make a category of traits about ME that you hated. In the middle of the lobby, you insulted my personality, looks, speech pattern, and fashion choices. You tore me down until there was nothing left. Cut any chance I had at self-confidence away. Yet, I am the bitch for getting hurt. That was the first time you called me a bitch and annoying out loud. But mother, how is a 12-year-old annoying for wanting to play a game. How is she a bitch because she told you to stop? How does a mother accept this behavior from her son? How is a 12-year-old already not worthy?

I bring this up and am met with: “You need to better understand mental health patients”. Confusion takes over me. How does that allow you to treat your child like this? How does that allow your son to threaten your life? I suffer from PTSD, Borderline disorder, and anxiety. Yet I can say I have never done any of these things. I refuse to allow my children to feel as if they are worthless. I refuse to be the person who is insulting and tearing my child down. I refuse to be my child’s first bully.

I can go on forever. I can give story after story. I can sit here and beg you to love me. I can beg for you to give me a fraction of the love you give even your own phone. But it is useless. My only value comes from accomplishments you can steal from me. I was not worthy as a child and I know I will never be.

Best,

Your Unworthy Child.

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Be on the lookout for Attachment to Broken Men: The bad boy. Here we will continue the deep dive into pivotal moments in my life in relation to past relationships. This will be the fourth installment. Each installment can be read as a stand-alone.