Letter to a wayward mother
Dear Mom:
This is the letter I’m not going to write you, but it’s the one I want to write. Since I was a little girl I’ve always wanted to take care of you, to make things better for you. This has manifested itself in dreaming of buying you a nice little cottage with a garden to live in, dreams of taking you to wonderful foreign countries to experience the likes of Venice or to once again see Cuba, or sometimes it is to get you a cat to curl up in your lap. Always, foremost on my mind, is that I would like you to be happy.
It’s hard to sit back and watch your mother choose a life of drinking, of solitude, of inertia, of fear, and alienation. I understand you can’t suffer reality so you hide inside a bottle of alcohol and pills and invent a vivid world, one that is often times really scary as you’ve invited crack addicts to live with you, taken home strangers, and countless other less than wise decisions.
So what I’ve decided is that as much as I want to take care of you, to make these last years of your life happy and wonderful, I’m not going to. Instead, I’m going to make myself happy. I’m here when the bottom falls out for you, but between now and then, I am going to try to no longer accept being manipulated by the dance of pity.
There, now to break old familiar patterns. That’s my hard work in front of me. Channeling Wonder Woman right now to see me through.