Una lettera aperta a mia madre che non mi ha mai protetto

Cara mamma,

Mentre sto qui a scrivere, mi viene in mente quanto a lungo ho covato tutti i pensieri, i sentimenti e i segreti che sto per rivelare in questa lettera.

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.

Correlato: Alla mamma che non mi ha voluto

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 avvertito di 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?

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, a un certo punto, di mettere in atto quegli stessi pensieri e quelle stesse azioni, senza conseguenze?

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?

Avevo quasi 13 anni quando il tuo allora terzo marito mi mise le mani sul sedere, facendosi toccare, con un sorriso bruttissimo stampato in faccia.

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?

Mancavano un paio di settimane al mio 15° compleanno quando tornai a casa vostra dopo un breve periodo di affidamento. A quel punto credevo che non aveste il diritto di dirmi cosa fare o come vivere la mia vita.

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.

Eri impegnata con il tuo profilo di incontri online, raccontando a tutti i pervertiti quanto fosse bella, intelligente e talentuosa la tua giovane figlia.

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.

Quasi 4 anni dopo, tu ti sei risposato, io ero mamma di un bel bambino, ma dovevo tornare a casa a causa di una sentenza di prigione imprevista inflitta al padre del bambino.

Siamo rientrate in una routine un po' madre-figlia, non troppo diversa dalla mia infanzia difficile.

In effetti, 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 lui mi metteva le mani nei pantaloncini. UUUGGGHHH!!!

Dopo altri tre anni, sono tornata a casa con la mia cara mamma e tu stavi ancora con lo stesso perdente.

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

Se non ricordo male, mi sveniva e mi diceva quanto fossi bella e quanto si stesse innamorando di me, il tutto mentre era in vivavoce in modo da poter sentire ogni misera parola che usciva dalla sua bocca.

Meno di una settimana dopo, ero in prigione, con tre reati che non solo erano stati messi in dubbio da voi, ma erano anche delle vere e proprie bugie. Protezione contro me stesso, aveva detto. Eh?

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.

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.

Così mi sono seduta e alla fine ho scritto questa lettera, che forse non leggerai mai. Perché devo perdonarti e superare il dolore e la rabbia.

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.

Sempre e per sempre,
La figlia che si protegge

di Candace Barish