Dear Mother

She just sat there while I slowly died inside. Her fingers feverishly typed away while I counted out all my white pills. Occasionally, a laugh escaped her lips in response to whatever stimulus was always more important than me. Quickly writing down all the pain I was feeling while she yelled from downstairs,
“Haley, did you finish cleaning that fucking room yet? I am really getting tired of your lazy ass. Nine fucking years old, Haley, pull your head out of your ass.”

Tears beaded up and slowly made their way down my face, making small pools on my first suicide note. Little did I know this would be the beginning of a decade’s worth of failed suicide attempts. If there is a God, I fucking hate him. I don’t think “My God and me” ever had a good relationship; I was much too “fucking annoying” and “a god damn slob” to be a good follower.

It’s my own fault. With such high expectations, I was bound to be disappointed. I heard stories from my cousin about mothers who read to them at night, hugged them when they were sick, told them how beautiful they were, and how they would always love them. Ironically, my mother made it clear, “You don’t need to be telling the family our god damn business, you little fucking shit starter!” I would not be exchanging our mothers’ different parenting methods.

I asked for too much. She was sure to show up to every school event and blow so much money on ME it would cripple us financially for a while. Buying me all the candy and special treats I ever asked for, in addition to letting me do whatever I wished while daddy was away. I learned how to change diapers at seven, so I was given the gift of overseeing my siblings’ changes. How many children can say they were entrusted with their siblings’ well-being at seven? Not many; I guess I was just lucky.

Mother didn’t just have a wonderfully colorful nickname for me whenever she saw me, but she even taught me how to fight. “You think you’re old enough, bitch? Well, come on, where did that smart-ass attitude go?” Yeah, ironically, if I brought friends home, she acted weird. “Hey, honey, do you guys want to go get pizza?” She would take my friends everywhere and buy us anything we asked for. You can see how this would cause some confusing conversations later: “You think money just grows on fucking trees? What, I am so sorry I can’t spoil your ass as much as gran.”

She would hurt me daily as a child, and the first time I tried to end my life, this is what I wrote to her.

          Dear Mother, 

    I am sorry for asking for one of your drinks when just last week you had given my friends everything we wanted. I try not to be spoiled rotten, but it is very hard. Every time I try, I fail. I am happy you always try to correct me and remind me what I have done wrong. I guess I just was born bad, and that’s why I can’t be a good girl. I have decided to kill myself. You tell me all the time how it would be so much easier if you didn’t have to deal with my bullshit, so I realize what you want from me now. I am sorry I don’t keep my room clean enough, clean the dishes well enough, watch my brother and sister well enough, I used up all our rent money at my birthday, embarrass you every time we are out in public, and make you cry every day. I guess some kids are just born ugly and bad. I wish I had died when I was born, like I was supposed to. I guess I figured you wanted to see me since you had me, but I was wrong.