Mom

Mom,

This letter isn’t the first or the last time I will write to you, and you will never see nor acknowledge its existence. I know you cannot and will not accept the irreversible damage you’ve caused, the torment you put me through, or the joy you seemed to take at the expense of my fragile heart and mind. That being said, I hope you know that I have moved on. I have forgiven you, not for your sake, but for my own health and peace.

I write this to you now, not as a child, but as a man speaking from a standpoint you will never truly understand or be able to take from me: a standpoint of freedom and self-preservation. I acknowledge and accept that you are sick, and always will be. You will never know love or happiness. You will never know the faces of your grandchildren, or the accomplishments along the way that you think you had a hand in. No, you will not and shall not ever truly know what I’ve been able to achieve despite your decades of pestilence, malice, and self-destruction. You ruined our relationship, and no amount of time will ever truly heal that.

I know you never meant well or wanted to do good by me. Quite frankly, you failed as a mother, as a teacher, and as a guide. I navigated the turbulence you created and sat me in, and I came out battered and damaged, but standing on my own two feet. I guess the only thing I can truly thank you for is that I now know exactly what I am capable of handling. So thank you for that, and for the irreversible pain you’ve caused me; it taught me what I shall never do to others, and it cemented the vow of who I will never become in my own life.

I walk a path I wish I could have you on. I wish
you could partake in my life and share in my triumphs in this world, but it will never come to be. That is the part that truly hurts the most.

I hope you can live with yourself.