Querida mãe

Querida mãe,

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.

Também quero dizer que lamento as coisas más e odiosas que disse e fiz ao longo dos anos e, embora o meu consumo de drogas tenha dado que falar durante muitos anos, isso não é de forma alguma uma desculpa para as minhas acções.

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…

Porque é que, aos 7 anos de idade, me chamaram mentirosa e me ignoraram como uma criança que só queria chamar a atenção, quando a minha irmã mais velha o avisou do que o seu namorado da altura tinha tentado fazer-lhe, sem sucesso, mas que tinha conseguido fazer-me a mim?

Porque é que nunca me disseram que o que ele me estava a fazer era doentio, demente e errado?

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?

Porque é que havia outros que tinham a oportunidade de olhar para mim com pensamentos e intenções perversas e depois, de um momento para o outro, executar esses mesmos pensamentos e acções, sem consequências?

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 os meus ouvidos zumbem 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.

No espaço de uma semana, saí de casa e tornei-me rapidamente num adulto.

Passados quase quatro anos, casaste-te de novo, eu era mãe de um menino lindo, mas precisava de voltar para casa devido a uma sentença de prisão imprevista aplicada ao pai do bebé.

Voltámos a ter uma rotina de mãe e filha. Na verdade, o teu novo marido até se enquadrava no mesmo papel de velhote malvado, embebedando-me tanto que eu vomitava no caixote do lixo ao lado da cama enquanto ele me enfiava as mãos nos calções.

UUUGGGHHH!!! Passados mais três anos, eu estava de novo em casa a viver com a mamã querida e tu continuavas com o mesmo falhado.

Lembras-te de quando ele me telefonou e disse todas aquelas coisas desagradáveis e horríveis sobre como eras gorda e nojenta e como a única razão pela qual ele lidava contigo era porque queria aproximar-se de mim?

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??

Os oito anos que se seguiram são nebulosos e enevoados, sobretudo porque eu estava demasiado pedrado para prestar atenção ou para me preocupar.

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.

Perdi tudo o que tinha mais do que uma vez, perdi as duas únicas coisas que significavam alguma coisa para mim neste mundo e perdi-me cada vez mais todos os dias.

Passei meses na prisão, para depois sair e voltar ao que era antes, apesar dos meus melhores esforços. Até que um dia acordei e percebi que, para poder seguir em frente, tinha de deixar de viver no meu passado atormentado.

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 para sempre,
A filha que se protege

por Candace Barish