I’m so angry with you, all the time. You treat me like I don’t exist unless you want something from me, and it’s damned insulting. My dad, your adoring husband, has tried and tried to fix it, convincing me to reach out, to extend the olive branch. Over and over I try, and you throw my olive branches unceremoniously back in my face.

Last weekend, I was dealing with my chronic IBS and I needed a few more minutes for my medicine to kick in before I felt comfortable leaving the house. You were ready to go, though, and refused to postpone meeting my brother and his fiancée by even fifteen minutes. When we finally arrived, they were fifteen minutes late anyway, and we sat in the car and waited. I was so uncomfortable on the car ride, but all you cared about was being on time. I was so excited to see them and spend time with them, that I refused to stay home. It was insulting that you even suggested it, especially as excitedly as you did. Like you didn’t want me to be there at all.

A month ago, brother’s fiancée posted on Facebook that she didn’t know what to do with her hair. You suggested French braiding, going as far as asking me to teach you how so that you could offer to braid her hair. You have no idea how much that hurts, Mom...no idea. You’ve never cared to braid my hair, and any time I’ve asked, you’re too tired, you don’t want to right now, always an excuse. I’ve asked my whole life and I can count on one hand the times you’ve acquiesced.

I know she’s pregnant with your first grandchild. I understand your excitement. I can’t wait to meet him, either. I’m sorry I got addicted to opiates and never settled down and gave you a grandchild. I’m sorry that the trauma you put me through, years of emotional neglect and abuse, years of enabling Dad physically abusing me, years of denying I was ever abused, still affects me. I’m sorry that I’m such a burden to you, living at home again at 31 because I’m emotionally crippled and can’t support myself, can’t hold a job for more than three months, can’t live alone without having major anxiety attacks and turning to drugs. I have so many coping skills now, thanks to being in long term drug recovery therapy. But apparently, no one has any tools on deck for coping with feeling like your own mother could care less if you vanished from existence. No one, in individual or group therapy, has been able to provide me with the coping skills necessary to make me not love you. And it destroys me.

Today, I asked if you could help me paint my nails. I had done French tips for the first time on my left hand, they didn’t look bad at all. But I was too shaky to paint my dominant hand. I showed you what I’d done and asked if you could help later. You replied with “I don’t know how to do that.” I was happy to explain that I just used my thin brush and painted across, that it’s easy, I just couldn’t do it myself. You literally just didn’t reply, like always. Conversation over. I know you had a long day at work, but Mom, couldn’t you just try? I tried to do it myself and failed miserably. I just took all my polish off and gave up. (sigh)

Couldn’t you just try a little harder to love me? I know you’re battling some pretty severe depression, and you’re too stubborn to ask a professional for help. Your mom died right before Covid started keeping people from being with their loved ones as they passed, thank God. You were able to be by her side. I know she was your rock, and you miss her terribly. I’m here for you, but you don’t want me.

You caused so much of what is wrong with me, Mom. You don’t see it, but Dad does. He’s almost apologized. You never will. And somehow, it doesn’t matter. I beat my fists against your wall anyway. Until they’re bleeding, until I’m so broken that I sleep for days. You won’t let me in.

I’m glad you finally have the daughter, the family, that you want. I’m sorry that I’m a part of it and messing up your perfect ideal. I love you anyway, Mom.