Querida mamá

Querida mamá,

As I sit here writing this letter, I am reminded of how long I have harbored all of the thoughts, feelings, and secrets I am about to reveal in this letter. I can feel the weight of the load I’ve been carrying begin to lessen, with every word I type.

For the past twenty years, I have held onto so much guilt, shame, embarrassment, pain and anger. And as many times as I’ve attempted to write and complete this letter, the truth is, when I could find the words I wanted to write, I was too high… too fucked up to even make a half-assed crack at it. But NOT today… NOPE!!

I am sober, clear-headed and ready to talk about all of the ‘what happens behind closed doors, stays behind closed doors’ secrets that you always insisted were tall tales and fabrications of a troubled child seeking attention.

Please let me start by saying that I FORGIVE YOU and love you… and that this letter is not to bash you or make you feel that the trouble I have gotten into or the questionable decisions I have made are in any way being blamed on you.

También quiero decir que lo siento por las cosas malas y odiosas que he dicho y hecho a lo largo de los años y aunque mi consumo de drogas me hizo hablar durante muchos años, eso no es en absoluto una excusa para mis acciones.

We have had some great times, haven’t we? Laughed until we cried… Been there for each other through some pretty rough and trying times… Held each other through the heartaches and tears… experienced love, hate, life and death.

God knows we’ve had some knock-down-drag-out fights and said things we didn’t necessarily mean. Our relationship has been one hell of a roller coaster, to say the least.

Looking back, I never could understand why, when I needed it the most though, you failed to protect me…

¿Por qué, a los 7 años, se me llamó mentirosa y se me despreció como a una niña que sólo buscaba llamar la atención, cuando mi hermana mayor te advirtió de lo que tu entonces novio había intentado hacerle a ella sin éxito, pero a mí sí?

¿Por qué nunca me dijeron que lo que me estaba haciendo era enfermizo, demente e incorrecto?

The truth is, at that age, I had no idea that what he was doing wasn’t supposed to feel good… or that it would leave a lasting impression on not only the way I viewed men, love and sex… but also the way I viewed safety, security and, most importantly, the way I viewed myself for a good majority of my life.

And why, why, why wasn’t he the only one who ever had the chance to do something so horrible like that to me?

¿Por qué había otros que tenían la oportunidad de mirarme con pensamientos e intenciones tortuosos y luego, en un momento u otro, llevar a cabo esos mismos pensamientos y acciones, sin consecuencias?

Why didn’t you protect the daughter you swear to love with all your heart? Was it me? Was it something I said? Something I did? Something I didn’t do?

I was almost 13 when you’re then third husband had his hands all over my ass, getting himself a feel, with the ugliest smile on his face.

I can’t remember if that was before or after I found the underage pornography of young girls who resembled me on our home computer, that we all used.

And all the while, not only was your husband interested in your 13-year-old daughter but so was the 18-year-old youth group leader of our church, who your husband adored and who you swore was, “The nicest and most responsible young man you’d met in far too long.”

Every time he’d pick me up for youth group or other church outings and activities, he’d be sure to make some random stop, in some random hidden away place, to get a piece of your young daughter’s innocence and free spirit.

During this time, I fell sick with an eating disorder, allowed my 4.0 GPA in school to fall significantly to a ridiculous 1.5 GPA, stopped involving myself in my extra-curricular interests…

For God’s sake, I cut my hair into ‘dyke-spikes’, wore all black clothing, piled on the dark make-up… hoping and praying that I would be too ugly to mess with any longer… that I would no longer be the object of their disgusting games.

I guess they never got the memo, ‘cause it continued. How many times was all of this brought to your attention? How many times did I beg you to let me stay home?

How many times did you ground me because I ‘acted-out’? How many times did you backhand me and make me pitan los oídos because I cried and yelled and threw fits about you staying with your husband? Why didn’t you protect your daughter?

I was a couple of weeks from celebrating my 15th birthday when I returned to your home from a brief stay in foster care. By that time, I believed that you had no right to try and tell me what to do or how to live my life. And you didn’t put up much of a fight with my rebellious, “You can’t tell me shit,” attitude, so I rolled with it and took it to a whole new extreme.

Stayed out as late as I wanted, with whoever was the ‘flavor of the week’ or the most wild and crazy, cussed like a sailor, drank as much alcohol as I could get my hands on, tried marijuana and even dabbled in opioids for the first time.

Whenever you’d protest, I’d storm out of the house with my middle finger in the air and a big, “FUCK YOU!!” screamed as loud as I could.

I even met my boys’ dad around that same time and almost immediately moved him in, even though he was a 22-year-old alcoholic, with an on-again, offagain job and no ambition or desire to do anything more than spend every waking hour tangled up in the sheets with your 15-year-old.

You were busy with your online dating profile… telling all the pervs about how beautiful, smart and talented your young daughter was. Was that the reason you got so many responses? Why couldn’t you protect your daughter from the ill intentions of your suitors?

I sat in the bathroom of our ‘home’ four months after the most outrageously partied-out sweet 16, with not just one but six POSITIVE pregnancy tests sprawled out on the countertop.

I came down the stairs, tears streaming down my cheeks and before I could get one word out, you said, “You’re knocked up, aren’t you?” not once even looking at me or changing your expression.

En una semana, estaba fuera de su casa y convirtiéndome rápidamente en un adulto.

Pasaron casi cuatro años, tú te habías vuelto a casar y yo era madre de un niño guapísimo, pero tuve que volver a casa porque el padre del bebé había sido condenado a una pena de prisión imprevista.

Volvimos a la rutina de madre e hija. De hecho, tu nuevo marido incluso encajó en el mismo papel de viejo asqueroso, emborrachándome tanto que vomitaba en la papelera junto a mi cama mientras me metía las manos en los calzoncillos.

¡¡¡UUUGGGHHH!!! Pasaron otros tres años y yo estaba de nuevo en casa viviendo con mamá querida y tú seguías con el mismo perdedor.

¿Recuerdas cuando me llamó y me dijo todas esas cosas desagradables y horribles sobre lo gorda y asquerosa que eras y que la única razón por la que trataba contigo era porque quería acercarse a mí?

If I remember correctly, he swooned over me and told me how beautiful I was and how much he was falling for me… all the while on speakerphone so you could hear every wretched word that came out of his mouth. Less than a week later, I was in jail, facing three felonies, which were not only pressed by you but were complete lies. Protection against myself, you had said. Huh??

Los ocho años siguientes fueron nebulosos y turbios, sobre todo porque estaba demasiado colocado para prestar atención o preocuparme.

In the midst of it all, I lost myself… totally and completely. I would stand in front of the mirror and be so mortified at the person staring back at me, I’d cry and scream at the damn thing. I spiraled out of control, almost died a time or two and could’ve cared less.

Perdí todo lo que poseía más de una vez, perdí las dos únicas cosas que significaban algo para mí en este mundo y me perdí a mí misma cada día más.

Pasé meses en la cárcel, sólo para salir y volver a donde estaba antes, a pesar de mis mejores esfuerzos. Un día me desperté y me di cuenta de que si quería seguir adelante, tenía que dejar de vivir en mi atormentado pasado.

So I sat down and finally wrote this letter, that you may never even read. Because I have to forgive you and move on from the pain and anger. After all, you have continued to live your life, happily as far as I know, and now it’s my turn.

I love you Mom but I will now love you from a distance that will protect and heal us both. I will always be my mother’s daughter but I will no longer allow the ghosts of my past to dictate how I live my present and future.

Siempre y para siempre,
La hija que se protege

por Candace Barish