dear mother, let us speak of the unspoken which blazes with urgency to be spoken of. i am not christian. i continue to work on convincing myself i understand you needing to assure yourself i am. (stacey, would you like to say grace tonight?) mother, you’ve been passive aggressive all night. that really puts the cherry on the cake. why would i want to say grace tonight when i never know what to say come grace. i do not even make any efforts to pray, let alone say fucking grace. (“grace! amen. now can i eat the pure waste on my plate?”) grace doesn’t make me more or less satiated or grateful for what i have. food is something we need in order to survive. if i get food, great, but why dramatize life by adding incantations like “saying grace” to show o god, we know we’re so lucky when we all think we’re totally unlucky all of my thoughts are deliberated to lord jesus oh my god stop thinkthink stop thinking stop op op thinkthink. in fact, it pushes me away to force the concept of gratitude onto me. nobody wants that shit. in fact, this is how gratitude is always spread. it’s forced.
“you have SOOOOOOOOOOOOOO much to live for”
“you have SOOOOOOOOOOOOOO much potential”
the intensity of these two arguments are like particles next to the intensity of any given thing i do, including feeling and my personal secret behavior, thinking.
that’s why we all feel so badly. we think of children starving in africa, ignorant of any of the names of its countries- just an image of a starving child that eats cooked grass in order to move on to the next day. this baby is sick and genetically fucked. this baby never had a chance at ruling a palace with the graciousness and kindness we do.
dear mother, i totally don’t think of you that often.
ma, i hope you start shooting up so i can get away with doing anything i want.
dear mother, i want to go to africa because my struggles lead me to believe the holy land of struggles is where i belong. not to say there aren’t struggles anywhere else. it’s just that the struggles seem passive aggressive where i come from and i don’t have time for that shit. in the land of africa, the struggles caused by being under attack are direct. in africa, i don’t think people say grace unless missionaries teach people how to. in africa, people want to know what happens when you say grace just like here; we hope it gets us into heaven.
i would look stupid and out-of-place in heaven, mother. i’d feel uncomfortable.
dear mother, you’re phobic of your youngest child committing suicide. you do what you can to make sure she proves it to you she’s trustworthy (she’s not sure she is). you give her medical advice to give to your medical practitioners. you wake her up at six AM to tell her what’s going to happen for the rest of the day to make sure she knows there’s a rest of the day ahead.
you’ve become hypochondriac like everyone else because of me; you’re superstitious- you experience a sort of countertransference with me because it’s the mother’s will to take away the pain of her baby even when she’s unable to.
you used to change your career over and over. this brought you happiness. then my father left you, me, and the others. suddenly you weren’t free anymore and you didn’t take well to this being stuck in a cage shit. your eyes began to look dead. you lost a significant amount of weight.
one day you told me, and i’d never seen your eyes look as dead as they did during this moment, that you were molested by a family friend. “what?” i might’ve replied. you might’ve repeated yourself, adding that you told your mother your father everyone you knew searching for someone to listen to your truth but nobody would have it. appearances trump all. molestation is too dark. we don’t want to destroy the image of a family friend, you know.
my mom looked so dead as she told me this. she looked so dead, i recognized the expression in her eyes as my own. she said that one gets over it in time. above all, we must be as wonderful as possible. we must emulate the savior for the savior. i think i heard once that he said grace.
dear mother, it’s me from the heart of my note informing you that if all goes well, i will be dead by the time you read this. sorry for the bitch move. i want you to take care of all of my stuff and i want you to make sure that you hold back from funeral arrangements. they’re going to make you feel worse. nobody likes fucking funerals, for peter’s sake. dear mother, stop doing things that make you feel worse in hopes that if you continue to oblige, you’ll feel better. mother, you’ll never get what you want this way.
you are looking at me like how you are looking at your mother when she was dying; you hook into our eyes with your own guilt. you felt guilty for grandma because you had to work overtime in order for our needs to be provided and there was nobody around to watch grandma, and my aunt, and us. my grandma is recalling very old memories. there are only a few. she’s reminded of cousin helen and cousin helen’s huge field and farm animals. this is grandma’s happy memory.
mother, i remember mine. i think i was five years old. you were tucking me into my bed on new year’s eve. you thought i was so darling that it was soothing for you to have such a darling in the family lineage which was shrinking as the years went on. i was so excited that the next day was the beginning of a new year, as though something unspoken would change the direction of the future and it would start off bare. now i don’t give such a fuck. there are relics i hold on to but they are not mine. i am theirs.
dear mom, you look tired. are you sure you don’t want a klonopin? i can go out and grab a bottle of cheap red wine. your daughter just tried to kill herself, your other daughter is all perfect and righteous, and your son has this asperger’s thing that nobody has dared to discuss yet in about twenty-five years- he is coddled instead because nobody knows what to do about it. above all, your own true love, my father, left you on your broke ass about twenty five years ago and you still love him exactly the same way. with all your heart you love him. he is pure. everything else is shit.
i know how it feels, mom. as much of a pain in the ass i can certainly be at least i pay the rent most of the time, i clean the house, i listen, i go to therapy and take it seriously, i take the meds- i even got a job just to challenge my fears. this is your daughter who challenges her fears as it can be done.
when i was young, mother, i was so shy. i still feel it the same way. i looked like a dying crocus. but i didn’t tell you how tormented, bullied i’d felt. i didn’t tell anyone. i didn’t tell anyone this but one night i dipped underneath the surface of mud beneath the water i had been balancing myself on. out i came the lotus who feasts on fears as it can be done.
dear mother, i see too much of "my" self in you. dear mother, please tell me i'm not looking into my future.
dear mother, i am my own mother, my own father, my own children, my own fast food place, my own favorite band right now (KMFDM), my sense of prioritizing, my very own meat grinder, my favorite band at fifteen years of age (switchblade symphony), my dream pony, my establishment run on prioritizing results, results, losing of a sense of the future.
i am crawling away on four paws, mother. but i’m gonna say it. nobody called you out for being possibly crazy and otherwise unhealthy. why are you still dating the same guy who’s an idiot that can’t possibly be liked? because he’s great, and you’re defensive over dumbasses, and that too is great? great! great.