30 Days Of Letters - To My Parents

When I read the first of Essin' Em's 30 Days Of Letters (Done before her by other bloggers whom I keep intending to read in length), I was intrigued. And now I'm giving it a go myself.

My parents have very different relationships with me, and there's a massive rift between my father and I that we are very slowly repairing. I don't trust him a bit, though, and I cannot say any of what I really want to say, not to him or my mother as I don't want to hurt her feelings either.

I’m going to split this up by parent, since I have different things to say to each:

Dear Mom,

You are my hero. Yes, a lot of people say that, but it’s true. As long as I can remember you’ve been one of the most amazing women I know. You went to school, and graduated, when I was still at the age when colouring on the walls was an art form and Daddy just had to be a superhero because he was my Daddy. And then you worked for thirteen years. I was hardly an easy child growing up - while I wasn’t a terror, we’ve discussed how it was pretty certain I was (and am) on the autism spectrum, but not sure where. We discovered my allergy to insect stings the hard way before I was even starting grade one. I had a knack for ‘friends’ who used me to their own advantage and frequently, especially once I was in junior high and my confidence was dropping like a brick, I’d come home in tears. I remember after one of the grade nine grads prior to my own I was in tears over being rejected by my crush at the time, and we had a mother-daughter sleepover on the sofa. In grade eight, due to Grandma moving in, we were stuck with sharing yours and dads bed while he got relegated to the basement, and we’d sit up and watch Clone High and a movie before sleep. Then, in grade nine, when Dad spent time being a raging terror to both of us, you wound up sleeping in the other room in the basement of the house we were living in. I’ve always been able to talk to you, although I haven’t always chosen to - my not telling you when I lost my virginity is evidence of that. You understand and accept how queer your daughter is, and you try to temper my youthful arrogance with your wisdom. I just don’t always listen.

Dear Dad,

It’s been many years since I could talk to you about my emotions. Your devotion to being mostly stoic and shoving your emotions in a small corner is surely admirable to some, but you want everyone else to do the same. And then, when you’ve pent up the negative ones long enough, you explode. And you wonder why nobody else is doing it. I love you, yes, I do, but I don’t trust you. I respect you largely out of fear; once, fear that you would hurt me again, now, fear that you’ll hurt Mom again. You would never, and likely will never, go to a professional in the mental health field, and so I will likely fear this for the rest of your life. I hate that I cannot trust you to not burst into an unpredictable, violent rage. I never have, and likely never will, forgive you for the times you hit me or Mom, and this colours my ability to look at you today and not expect you to just abruptly hurt one of us. I loathe your unwillingness to allow other peoples opinions to be considered valid, and how you will insult people relentlessly based on some ridiculous thing you dislike. If ever I have children, they will be taught once they can understand that everything Grandpa says is to be taken with a handful of salt and discussed later with me, because I do not want my children to be so vicious with their opinions, views, and attitude as you.

I love you, Daddy, and to a small bit of me you will always be my superhero, but I also loathe you for so much.