Cara mamma

Cara mamma,

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.

Voglio anche dire che mi dispiace per le cose cattive e odiose che ho detto e fatto nel corso degli anni e che, sebbene il mio uso di droghe abbia fatto parlare di sé per molti anni, questo non è in alcun modo una scusa per le mie azioni.

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…

Perché, a 7 anni, sono stata chiamata bugiarda e ignorata come una bambina in cerca di attenzioni, quando la mia sorella maggiore ti ha messo in guardia su ciò che il tuo fidanzato di allora aveva cercato di fare a lei, senza successo, ma con successo a me?

Perché non mi è mai stato detto che quello che mi stava facendo era malato, demente e sbagliato?

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?

Perché c'erano altri che avevano l'opportunità di fissarmi con pensieri e intenzioni subdole e poi, in un momento o nell'altro, di mettere in atto quegli stessi pensieri e azioni, senza conseguenze?

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 mi fischiano le orecchie 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.

Nel giro di una settimana sono uscito da casa sua e sono diventato rapidamente un adulto.

Quasi quattro anni dopo, tu ti sei risposato, io ero mamma di un bel bambino, ma dovevo tornare a casa a causa di una condanna imprevista al carcere del padre del bambino.

Siamo rientrate in una routine un po' madre-figlia. Non molto diversa dalla mia infanzia difficile; infatti, il tuo nuovo marito si è persino calato nel solito ruolo di vecchio antipatico, facendomi ubriacare a tal punto da farmi vomitare nel cestino del letto mentre mi metteva le mani nei pantaloncini.

UUUGGGHHH!!! Dopo altri tre anni, ero di nuovo a casa e vivevo con la mia cara mamma e tu stavi ancora con lo stesso sfigato.

Ti ricordi quando mi ha chiamato e mi ha detto tutte quelle cose brutte e orribili su quanto eri grassa e schifosa e sul fatto che l'unico motivo per cui aveva a che fare con te era perché voleva avvicinarsi a me?

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??

Gli otto anni successivi sono nebbiosi e offuscati, soprattutto perché ero troppo fatto per prestare attenzione o per preoccuparmi.

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.

Ho perso tutto ciò che possedevo più di una volta, ho perso le uniche due cose che significavano qualcosa per me in questo mondo e ho perso me stessa ogni giorno di più.

Ho passato mesi in prigione, per poi uscire e tornare al punto di prima, nonostante i miei sforzi. Poi un giorno mi sono svegliata e ho capito che se volevo andare avanti, dovevo smettere di vivere nel mio tormentato passato.

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.

Sempre e per sempre,
La figlia che si protegge

di Candace Barish