I wrote my mother a letter, asking nothing but one thing: To live a life without her, without her madness. Today, I found a letter in my post. Just the way I had asked for it. After all these years, I get the one thing I wanted from my mother. The closest thing to respect I could hope for.
I open the letter. It is written with a computer, no handwriting. It says: ‘Okay. You never have to see me again.’
For a second, I contemplate the shock such a formal message from one’s own mother may bring upon most people. Me, it fills with joy. She showed me respect and gave me the thing I asked for, once in my life. Nothing extra, nothing special. Nothing she thought I needed, nothing she needed to give. Just what I asked her for.
I cry out in joy and happiness.
Maybe one day, I can.
She did write me a passive aggressive short message, too, that she does not want my remaining stuff in her place. I wrote her back that she is not to write me again, last warning. But I figured that I did not really want her to have the power to control my hand that much, so I just blocked her number.
Fuck the message.
I am happy, for the time being.
Leaves me with one thing:.
But in a way, I can relish that. As now, it is free of the asshole I want to be. The prototypical . The rage against the father’s disrespect. The rage that makes me shout the repetitions in the gym, instead of speaking them meekly. The rage that makes me seek conflict.. It is a rage that comes at the price of seeking men’s approval, but also gives me the energy to be the
Eventually, I will have to give that up, too.
I will know when that moment is here.