Uma carta aberta à minha mãe que nunca me protegeu

Querida mãe,

Enquanto estou aqui sentado a escrever, lembro-me de há quanto tempo tenho guardado todos os pensamentos, sentimentos e segredos que estou prestes a revelar nesta 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.

Relacionadas: Para a mãe que não me queria

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?

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, num momento ou noutro, executar esses mesmos pensamentos e acções, sem consequências?

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?

Eu tinha quase 13 anos quando o teu então terceiro marido pôs as mãos no meu rabo, a apalpar-me, com um sorriso horrível na 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?

Faltavam duas semanas para celebrar o meu 15º aniversário quando voltei para sua casa depois de uma breve estadia num orfanato. Nessa altura, já achava que não tinha o direito de me tentar dizer o que fazer ou como viver a minha 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.

Estava ocupada com o seu perfil de encontros online, a dizer a todos os pervertidos como a sua jovem filha era bonita, inteligente e talentosa.

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.

Passados quase 4 anos, o senhor tinha voltado a casar, eu era mãe de um menino lindo, mas tinha 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, não muito diferente da minha infância agitada.

Na verdade, o seu novo marido até se enquadrava no mesmo papel de velho 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 3 anos, eu estava de novo em casa, a viver com a mamã querida, e tu continuavas com o mesmo falhado.

Lembras-te 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?

Se bem me lembro, ele desmaiou em cima de mim e disse-me como eu era bonita e como estava apaixonado por mim, sempre em alta voz para que se pudesse ouvir cada palavra miserável que saía da sua boca.

Menos de uma semana depois, eu estava na prisão, enfrentando três crimes, que não só foram pressionados por si, como eram completamente mentirosos. Proteção contra mim próprio, disse. O quê?

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.

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, se alguma vez quisesse seguir em frente, tinha de deixar de viver no meu passado atormentado.

Por isso, sentei-me e acabei por escrever esta carta, que talvez nunca chegues a ler. Porque tenho de te perdoar e ultrapassar a dor e a raiva.

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 para sempre,
A filha que se protege

por Candace Barish