Dear Mother,
I admit it. I spent most of high school trying to get the fuck out of the house, out of the suburb we lived in. Sorry, I just never liked living way out in the middle of nowhere when all of my friends were still in the city. It’s not like I was out doing anything illegal, or even against your rules. And I really don’t understand what your constant bitching to get me to stay home was all about. You’d complain that you never saw me, that I was always gone. So I’d stay home and you’d spend the whole day out running errands. What. The. Fuck.
But when I went away to college (to the school you chose, the school you told me I only had to give a chance to for one semester, and the school you later insisted I had to stay at if I wanted you to pay for my education), maybe I did distance myself a lot. While I always made some effort to keep in touch, I admit that it was minimal. And, yeah, even though I came home for the summer after my one year of school (you still don’t believe that I was so miserable at school, still think I was just being a brat, but oh well), I did end up living somewhere else by September (Sept '00 for those of you who don’t have a timeline of my life).
Furthermore, I admit that there were times when I wanted someone other than you at my side. When I had that kidney infection, Mark was the one who took care of me for three weeks and forced me to drink juice and take my medicine. And when I ended up going to the emergency room, you were the one who made me wait FOUR HOURS so that you could drive me. Nevermind that I had my own car and Mark could have driven me. YOU wanted to take me. YOU wanted me to wait until you got off work. And like a good (stupid) daughter, I waited four hours in extreme pain for you. Did you not understand how fucking sick I was?? And you want to know why Mark was the one I wanted at my bedside in the ER.
But for the past year and a half, I have made every effort to strengthen our relationship. I have been trying. And still, every time I call, I get guilt trips about how I never call you, how I never come over, how I am hurting you. No matter what I give, you want more. You want everything to be about what YOU fucking want, all the fucking time.
Well, guess what? IT’S NOT.
When I got pregnant last year, I wanted a family to share my joy with. I foolishly thought of you. But you were the epitome of not there for me. You never called, you were busy when I called you. You never came over. You wouldn’t help us move to a bigger place. You wouldn’t help with the baby shower unless I did things your way (which included excluding my husband and all of my male friends). You almost refused to come to my baby shower because my husband was there. And why? Just because he’s not a woman? How stupid is that?
And when my son was born, you expected some kind of special status, as though you had actually been involved in my life at some point. I was busy trying to recover from major surgery, but you expected to be able to wake me whenever you wanted. To wake the baby whenever you wanted. You expected to be able to bring all of your friends into my hospital room, people I didn’t even know. You were insulted when I asked you to wait to bring friends over until we got home. And what the fuck was with that friend of yours taking pictures of my husband while he was asleep? You don’t think that’s a little rude?
And now you’ve gone back to the same old thing. Never calling, but complaining that I don’t call you. Whining that you want to see the baby, but never coming over.
You want to talk to me so badly? You don’t need a fucking written invitation to call me.
You want to come see me? Then fucking start accepting when I invite you over. Of all of the times I have invited you over, you have yet to accept once. We’ve invited you to dinner, but you’re too busy. In fact, just today I asked you to come over next weekend, but you’re too busy.
There have only been two times in the past year that you invited me over and I did not come. Once was when my brother was coming home on leave and you asked me to come. You know I wanted to be there. I accepted, and I was looking forward to it when Mark’s grandmother died. Did you expect us to just not go to his grandmother’s out-of-state funeral, the last chance he ever had to see her, so that I could come visit you? As much as I love you, I’m sorry. We needed to be there.
The second time was this past 4th of July, your birthday. I honestly didn’t think you’d expect us this year. Last year I did expect to come over, thinking (obviously incorrectly), that you would want to see me on your birthday like every other year. So I didn’t make plans. And you went out of state without even telling me. And while that may have been my fault for assuming plans where there were none, it kind of sucked to have two kids and not be doing something for them on a major holiday. So when I didn’t hear from you this year, I made other plans. And then you called me at 8pm on the 3rd to invite me over the next day. I’m sorry, I had other plans. And when I asked to come over the next day, you refused.
But you didn’t have any problems complaining to grandma about how I never come over.
Fuck that. And fuck you.
I’m sorry this sounds like some exponentially nasty version of my grandmother.