Unwritten Letters

Dear Mom,

Writing these letters to you has its ups and downs. Each week, usually every Sunday, I have terrible writer’s block and can’t come up with a topic to write about. The day I submit, I worry no one will read it. Then there is the very long moment, sometimes lasting for days, when I wonder if anyone in the world even cares about my words. But there is one dreaded moment during my writing process that often punches me in the gut. A moment with the ability to knock me down even when I’m at my strongest. Every time I post a letter to you there is this tiny, split-second moment when I hope with every ounce of my being that you will somehow write me back.

I close my eyes at night and hope to dream of a response from you. I fantasize about waking up to a letter in my inbox. I wish I could at the very least feel deep within my soul that I have your answers. Your guidance. Your advice. Your apologies.

And every week I get nothing. I get silence. Instead, I get deeper into my own head and my own emotions. Allowing myself to be overtaken by ‘what if’ and ‘why me’ and ‘life’s not fair’. At times I feel sad. The grief of losing you becomes too big to ignore. At times I feel alone. Like no one other than you could possibly understand. Lately? I’ve been feeling angry. Angry at the situation. Angry that I’m without a mother. Angry at you.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this anger. Why am I feeling this way? It’s not your fault that you died. It’s not your fault that I don’t have you anymore. But I’m beginning to realize that I’m not angry that you’re dead. I’m sad about that. I’m not angry that you left me. I know you didn’t mean to. The anger runs deeper. The anger runs all the way to my childhood and wraps around my limbs and pulls me underground to this dark place where I hold all of my pain. The anger is toward a past you. A previous you. A you that was a mother of young children and made mistakes. Some were understandable and insignificant. Others have stuck with me for all these years. Choices you made as my mom that I believe were wrong. Choices I can now look back on as an adult and a mom myself and see the flaws in. And I’m holding all this anger toward that very specific version of you. The you who made me feel neglected. Who made me feel like I’d never be enough. Who made me feel so alone and misunderstood.

I am angry at the Janis who lived on Heatherdown Way in Buffalo Grove who put on Sesame Street and walked away. The Janis who didn’t know I was scared playing in the playroom in that dark and bug infested basement. Who didn’t believe me when I said spiders came out of my bedroom vent. Who didn’t listen when I described my recurring nightmare. I’m angry she exposed little Rachel to so much suffering. Who normalized pain and despair.

I am angrier at the Janis who lived only a few minutes away on Lockwood Drive. She tried. I know she did. But she also disappeared. Even when she was home, she wasn’t really there. And then she wasn’t home either. She was out. She was living her best life. And later she was taking care of a dying child and failing to see the one who was struggling to live.

I’m so angry at the Janis who thought it was a good idea to move to the city and leave me behind when I needed her most. Even if I said it was OK. Even if I acted like it was the greatest moment in my life to not have parents around during my last months of high school. Even if I told you to go. It hurt. It hurt so much when I came home from school, and you had already left. When I walked through the house I grew up in, and all that was left behind was a lamp no one wanted and me. I know you must've told me you and Dad were moving that day. But I remember so clearly being surprised when I got home from school. I expected you to be there.

I’m still angry that I never got closure. That house we spent over a decade in. Where we sat three Shivas. Where I got into so much trouble. Where I developed an eating disorder, a substance abuse problem, and a years-long issue with self-hate. The house I snuck out of and snuck people into and threw parties and had sex and drank and did drugs all while you were asleep upstairs completely unaware of the debauchery going on below. All of my memories, good and bad, were erased when I came home that day to find the house empty. To find you’d moved most of my things. To later find out you’d trashed the rest of it.

I’m angry that you put yourself first. That you thought your own happiness was more important than mine. That you barely believed I’d aspire to anything worth bragging about.

But, most of all, I’m angry that I can’t say all of this to that Janis. I can’t go back in time and tell her how she did me wrong. How she fucked up. And I am realizing that even if you were still alive, I’d never be able to get closure from those years. Before you died, you had already become a better mom. You had already shown me what our relationship could be. And you weren’t ever going to be able to fully apologize for the pain you caused me when I was younger. Just like I can't ever fully apologize for the pain I caused you during those years.

If I could wake up tomorrow to a letter waiting for me from you, I’d want it to say the following…

Dear Rachel,

You’re right.

I did mess up. I neglected you and abandoned you. I allowed you to grow up too fast. I forced you to grow up too fast because I needed a confidante and not a child. I needed my daughter to be there for me. But I wasn’t there for her when she needed me most. I’m sorry I didn’t play with you more when you were little. I’m sorry I left alone. I thought you were happy. You seemed happy. I’m sorry for all the babysitters and for all the times you were in an empty house. I’m sorry I couldn’t help. That I didn’t know you needed me.

Love,

Mom

But that wouldn’t be helpful. Not really. This is the sort of letter you’d write me today. Or at the end of your life. I need a letter written from back then. I need your words in the moment. Something like this…

Dear Rachel,

How was your day today? Did you build anything? Did you come up with a new game with your Barbies? Did you watch any good cartoons? My day was fine. I had to drive into the city to take Paul to an appointment and I had to use all my physical and emotional energy to get him in and out of his wheelchair. I am so drained right now. It was a rewarding day, but if I’m being totally honest, I wish I had spent the day with you instead. I wish I had painted with you and spent time in the garden.

I’m sorry you had such a rough day yesterday. I heard you when you said you hated your life, and you had no friends. I don’t think I reacted the right way. You probably think I don’t care.

No matter what happens, I’m here for you. Even if it feels like I’m far away. Sometimes I am far away. I don’t mean to be. There is just so much going on in my head at all times. I have a lot on my plate. But that’s not your fault. You deserve a mom who is present, and I want to be that mom for you. I always dreamt of having a mom who was present. I bet it would feel really good.

Dad and I are on our way to the city. We said a quick goodbye to Buffalo Grove while you were at school. Nothing special. No big ceremony. Just a little wave and a thank you for the good times.

We’re halfway to the city and I just realized we never told you what time we were hitting the road. I hope you’re not afraid when you get home from school. We’re not gone. We’ve just relocated to a new home. It’s much smaller but I’ve decorated it the same way as the house you grew up in so you can still feel at home when you visit. I hope that is enough. Maybe I need to do more than just paint the walls. Maybe I need to find a big way to make you feel included.

Good luck on your finals. I know you’ll do great. You work so hard, and you have such a bright future. I can’t wait to see who you become.

I love you,

Love,

Mom

I wish I could’ve woken up each morning throughout my childhood and adolescence with letters like this from you. I wish I could’ve processed my issues and my pain in the moment. I wish you could’ve noticed I needed you. But that’s all a fantasy. It was never going to happen. You were never going to notice how much I was hurting because I barely noticed it myself. It’s taken me years to unpack my childhood. Years of experience and wisdom and therapy to ultimately conclude that no parent is perfect. You tried your best and I think it’s time I understand that your best has to be enough, even if I wanted more.

I love you, Mom.

Love,

Rachel