Carta abierta a mi madre, que nunca me protegió

Querida mamá,

Mientras estoy aquí sentada escribiendo, recuerdo cuánto tiempo he albergado todos los pensamientos, sentimientos y secretos que estoy a punto de revelar en esta carta.

I can feel the weight of the load I’ve been carrying begin to lighten with every word I type. For the past 20 years, I’ve held onto so much guilt, shame, embarrassment, pain, and anger.

And as many times as I’ve attempted to write and complete this letter, 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’ve gotten into or the questionable decisions I’ve made are in any way being blamed on you.

I also want to say that I am sorry for the mean and hateful things I have said and done over the years, and although my drug use did the talking for me for a long time, that’s in no way an excuse for my actions.

Relacionado: A la madre que no me quería

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 atención, cuando mi hermana mayor te advirtió de lo que tu entonces novio había intentado infructuosamente hacerle a ella, pero que a mí me hizo con éxito?

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

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 fijamente 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 swore to love with all your heart? Was it me? Was it something I said? Something I did? Something I didn’t do?

Tenía casi 13 años cuando tu entonces tercer marido me tocó el culo con sus manos, con la sonrisa más fea de su cara.

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 makeup – 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, because 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 often did you back-hand me and make my ears ring because I cried and yelled and threw fits about you staying with your husband? Why didn’t you protect your daughter?

Me faltaban un par de semanas para celebrar mi decimoquinto cumpleaños cuando volví a tu casa tras una breve estancia en un centro de acogida. Por aquel entonces, creía que no tenías ningún derecho a intentar decirme qué hacer o cómo vivir mi vida.

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 boy’s dad around that same time, and almost immediately moved him in, even though he was a 22-year-old alcoholic, with an on-again-off-again 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.

Estabas ocupado con tu perfil de citas online, contando a todos los pervertidos lo guapa, lista y talentosa que era tu hija pequeña.

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” 4 months after the most outrageously partied out sweet 16, with not just one, but 6 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. Within the week, I was out of your house and becoming an adult quickly.

Pasaron casi cuatro años, tú te habías vuelto a casar, 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 caer en una rutina un tanto materno-filial, no muy distinta de mi rocambolesca infancia.

De hecho, tu nuevo marido incluso encajó en el mismo papel de viejo asqueroso, emborrachándome tanto que vomitaba en la papelera de mi cama mientras él me metía las manos en los calzoncillos. ¡¡UUUGGGGHHH!!

Pasaron otros 3 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?

Si no recuerdo mal, se desmayó por mí y me dijo lo guapa que era y lo enamorado que estaba de mí, todo ello por el altavoz del teléfono para que pudieras oír cada miserable palabra que salía de su boca.

Menos de una semana después, estaba en la cárcel, enfrentándome a 3 delitos graves, que no sólo fueron presionados por usted, sino que eran mentiras completas. Protección contra mí mismo, habías dicho. ¿Qué?

The next 8 years are foggy and clouded, mostly because I was too high to pay attention or care. 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. I lost everything I owned more than once, lost the only two things that meant anything to me in this world, and lost myself more and more every day.

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.

Así que me senté y finalmente escribí esta carta, que quizás nunca leas. Porque tengo que perdonarte y dejar atrás el dolor y la rabia.

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 dictate how I live my present and future.

Siempre y para siempre,
La hija que se protege

por Candace Barish