Mother

[clarity]

Mother

I must omit the 'dear' for that would be a lie.

You will of course, never read this letter.  Your wounds would be so great, your favourite phrase 'kicked in the teeth' would be trundled out, the way it always is when I share my distress with you, as if somehow my pain is a razor edged sword, with your name engraved upon it.  It is only now dawning on me, reaching my half century as 'daughter', the abomination of this - this stealing of my authentic suffering, this fermenting it into an acidic mess, this pouring of it down my own throat. 

I refuse to swallow it any longer.   

I write this letter for myself.  For the sheer relief and therapy of being able to so blatantly express myself, whilst revelling in the safety of knowing you will not have access to it.  For the comfort of knowing that others who understand and have empathy will not take my pain and twist it into something unrecognisable as mine or ignore me while I cry.

I pity you, for your heart of stone. 
You regale me with tales of your own painful childhood.  I have listened.  I have sympathised.  I have suggested that you seek help. 
'' I am too old to change'' you say.
''I just am what I am'' you say.
'' I really cannot be bothered'' you mean.
'' I need this story, I need to hide behind my facade''

It is a conscious choice that you make, Mother.

I too can make a choice now.  Now that I have had to accept which version of you is the real woman who brought me into this world.
The pain of that realisation is bewildering. 
But it wakes me up, a bucket of cold water over my head, a blast of icy air somehow reaches my heart, now that I can stop pretending. 

So, Mother.  I choose differences.  I choose to renounce your manipulations.  I choose to dodge and duck them whenever and wherever I can.  I choose to keep myself safer than I have ever been before.  I choose to reveal nothing.  I choose to begin a life now that you know virtually nothing about.  I choose to claim my birth right in this world - to be a valid person.  I choose to believe the people who tell me I am worthy of being loved.  I choose to cover my ears when you drone on and on about how fantastic other people are, and how marvellous they tell you YOU are.  I choose to yeah whatever.  I choose to go my own way.  I choose to drop you like a hot coal.

It is enough.
You both win and lose.  You wore me down. But when I was on my knees, I looked up and saw a face I did not recognise.
And in that moment, I chose to disown you as my mother.

So now, you are just Mother.
Not mine.
My heart is looking out to the horizon.
My heart lets you go.