3 Days, 3 Letters
Dear Mom and Dad,
You are the hardest people to write to. I...I love you. Both. Because that's what families do, they love each other, and, well, there's no way I can love the whole world if I can't start at my doorstep. So, I love you, or I try to, and I try to trust that you love me, try to take the things you do in the spirits in which they're meant. So much of the time, though, I fail.
I can't be there with you, in that house. I can't. I do it, again and again, and it breaks me. I've come so far, learned so much, but every time I'm under that roof for more than a few hours I find myself sixteen again; angry, terrified, helpless. And maybe, Dad, you've genuinely forgotten everything - there's so much you don't remember, or say you don't remember, about those years. And, Mom, maybe you genuinely mean it when you act like the very act of taking a step forward completely absolves the past, and anything wrong with the present. Maybe you both genuinely think it's just to forget what's over and done, to pretend like it never happened. But...I can't. I try, I do, but you have to understand; I was nine or so when things went south, and they didn't start climbing out of the pit until I was sixteen. All the years I was really becoming a person, the years I was trying to decide how people related to each other and how men and women functioned and the million other absolutely huge things that happen in those years of transition from child to woman...I had nothing. Your dysfunction was all I had to look on when I was growing, it even touched and tainted the relationships and worldviews I had before the dark years, and it's a part of me now.
I just...I wish we could talk about this stuff. I am so hurt, and so angry, and it poisons everything. Dad, I tried to talk to you once - I don't remember whether or not you were sober - and I remember you looking at me and saying, "You want to lay this on me? Go ahead. I can take it. I have strong, broad shoulders. They've carried a lot of weight. You can add to it." Somehow you took my desperate attempts to connect with you and villanised me. And that hurt. I make the conscious choice to forgive you again and again, but when I see your truck in the driveway, or when I hear you walk around upstairs or walk in a room and you're there, my body still has an immediate flight-or-fight response, and it's everything I can do not to run as fast and as far as I can go. And that's an absurd response for a daughter to have to her father. Mom, you were so...weak. No matter how many ways you frame what happened, no matter what explanations you offer or how you spin it, all I know is this: when I was little, I trusted you with everything. I thought you hung the moon. And when I needed you, you left me alone. You made no attempt to protect or save me, you made the choice that was most convenient for you, that soothed your conscience. You deserted me. So when I see you frustrated from dealing with things that are (however directly or indirectly) the aftermath of those years, I don't feel sorry for you. I feel disgusted, because we never should have been there to see the fallout. And that's an absurd response for a daughter to have to her mother.
We do a really good job of playing at a family now. I call you all every few days to chat, tell you the big ideas of what's happening, and you tell me you're proud when I get some part or do well on a test. And even though none of it rings true, I realise that's probably more my problem than yours, and I at least appreciate the effort. I don't mean to sound like everything is awful; I think I might enjoy you both as people, if I knew you aside from being my parents. Dad, you have my same sense of humour, even if you let yourself veer more to the hostile side than I do. My intelligence came from you, and I appreciate that you support my educational efforts, that you never let my gender influence how you see me as a thinking being. I know you're trying, and I appreciate it. Mom, you're very sweet. You don't listen to me, ever, but you at least ask the questions, and you try to show appropriate enthusiasm even when I'm excited about things you don't really understand. You care about people a lot.
So...even though I'm pretty sure we're screwed as a family...I think there's hope. I hope that someday I will genuinely be able to forgive you, to meet you where you are and love you well. I hope that someday you'll see me, hear me, love me. I hope that, when I'm living hours away, with my own life, we'll be able to meet as people rather than parent and child, and I hope that we can reform our relationship into something healthy and functional and life-affirming for all parties. And...for the record...I know your sins are not entirely your own. They came from your mothers and fathers, and I see them, sometimes, when I look in the mirror. But I hope, I promise, that I will do the work to become a better person, that you won't see them looking back from your grandkids' faces, should I have them. Because if you did anything for me, you made me capable and strong, you taught me that I can stand on my own.
It's just going to take a while to thoroughly learn the lesson that I don't have to. And when I've got it down, when I'm able to look another human being in the face and be open and vulnerable and honest, I hope that I'll be able to bring it back to you.
Love,
Lusie
You are the hardest people to write to. I...I love you. Both. Because that's what families do, they love each other, and, well, there's no way I can love the whole world if I can't start at my doorstep. So, I love you, or I try to, and I try to trust that you love me, try to take the things you do in the spirits in which they're meant. So much of the time, though, I fail.
I can't be there with you, in that house. I can't. I do it, again and again, and it breaks me. I've come so far, learned so much, but every time I'm under that roof for more than a few hours I find myself sixteen again; angry, terrified, helpless. And maybe, Dad, you've genuinely forgotten everything - there's so much you don't remember, or say you don't remember, about those years. And, Mom, maybe you genuinely mean it when you act like the very act of taking a step forward completely absolves the past, and anything wrong with the present. Maybe you both genuinely think it's just to forget what's over and done, to pretend like it never happened. But...I can't. I try, I do, but you have to understand; I was nine or so when things went south, and they didn't start climbing out of the pit until I was sixteen. All the years I was really becoming a person, the years I was trying to decide how people related to each other and how men and women functioned and the million other absolutely huge things that happen in those years of transition from child to woman...I had nothing. Your dysfunction was all I had to look on when I was growing, it even touched and tainted the relationships and worldviews I had before the dark years, and it's a part of me now.
I just...I wish we could talk about this stuff. I am so hurt, and so angry, and it poisons everything. Dad, I tried to talk to you once - I don't remember whether or not you were sober - and I remember you looking at me and saying, "You want to lay this on me? Go ahead. I can take it. I have strong, broad shoulders. They've carried a lot of weight. You can add to it." Somehow you took my desperate attempts to connect with you and villanised me. And that hurt. I make the conscious choice to forgive you again and again, but when I see your truck in the driveway, or when I hear you walk around upstairs or walk in a room and you're there, my body still has an immediate flight-or-fight response, and it's everything I can do not to run as fast and as far as I can go. And that's an absurd response for a daughter to have to her father. Mom, you were so...weak. No matter how many ways you frame what happened, no matter what explanations you offer or how you spin it, all I know is this: when I was little, I trusted you with everything. I thought you hung the moon. And when I needed you, you left me alone. You made no attempt to protect or save me, you made the choice that was most convenient for you, that soothed your conscience. You deserted me. So when I see you frustrated from dealing with things that are (however directly or indirectly) the aftermath of those years, I don't feel sorry for you. I feel disgusted, because we never should have been there to see the fallout. And that's an absurd response for a daughter to have to her mother.
We do a really good job of playing at a family now. I call you all every few days to chat, tell you the big ideas of what's happening, and you tell me you're proud when I get some part or do well on a test. And even though none of it rings true, I realise that's probably more my problem than yours, and I at least appreciate the effort. I don't mean to sound like everything is awful; I think I might enjoy you both as people, if I knew you aside from being my parents. Dad, you have my same sense of humour, even if you let yourself veer more to the hostile side than I do. My intelligence came from you, and I appreciate that you support my educational efforts, that you never let my gender influence how you see me as a thinking being. I know you're trying, and I appreciate it. Mom, you're very sweet. You don't listen to me, ever, but you at least ask the questions, and you try to show appropriate enthusiasm even when I'm excited about things you don't really understand. You care about people a lot.
So...even though I'm pretty sure we're screwed as a family...I think there's hope. I hope that someday I will genuinely be able to forgive you, to meet you where you are and love you well. I hope that someday you'll see me, hear me, love me. I hope that, when I'm living hours away, with my own life, we'll be able to meet as people rather than parent and child, and I hope that we can reform our relationship into something healthy and functional and life-affirming for all parties. And...for the record...I know your sins are not entirely your own. They came from your mothers and fathers, and I see them, sometimes, when I look in the mirror. But I hope, I promise, that I will do the work to become a better person, that you won't see them looking back from your grandkids' faces, should I have them. Because if you did anything for me, you made me capable and strong, you taught me that I can stand on my own.
It's just going to take a while to thoroughly learn the lesson that I don't have to. And when I've got it down, when I'm able to look another human being in the face and be open and vulnerable and honest, I hope that I'll be able to bring it back to you.
Love,
Lusie