An Open Letter

Enough immediate fires were put out to allow me to talk with my therapist about what happened with my mom about a month ago. If nothing else I remember the bitterness I hold so close to my heart. She asked me what sort of mother figure/father figure I had growing up, and my answer was none. No coaches, no teachers, no adults, no nothing. And I don’t know what else to taste other than this bitterness that sits in my mouth with a metallic taste. It simply is. There is nothing I can do to change that. It could have been worse, but it sure as hell could have been better. I think I have two responses to people when they talk about interacting with their families. One is a violent envy that sits just behind my tongue, like a mute on everything else until it passes. And the other is ignorance. It’s easy for me to not even register talk about family since I didn’t get to have one. When someone talks about grandparents or cousins, those are just words. I have no memories tied to them, and so if things are well, I don’t notice the absence of experience there. When people say they call their mom or talk with their dad, it’s like reading about magic in a book. I know of it because I’ve read or heard about it, but I know it’s not real. Until I remember it is. Just not for me. And then I feel like there is a chasm between us, of an experience neither of us could comprehend. I cannot imagine what it is like to have that, and they cannot imagine what it is like to not.

I fucking hate the question of if my family still lives in San Diego for when I move back for my new job. I hate lying but I hate the pity of explaining my situation more. I feel nothing but anger hearing those stupid fucking comments about “oh I’m so sorry” when I mention how I didn’t go home for break, or for summer. You can just go ahead and rot in whatever your hell is for that. I don’t know what you would even expect me to say in response. Do you want me to break down and cry and just wallow in the misery of not having the shit you do? From the bottom of my heart, fuck you. It’s an ugly thought that I don’t want to write down, but I feel a gross satisfaction of the things I have better than them and I hold that close to my heart in those moments. I have no other option than to look down on them. Because I have a stacked resume. Because I got a high paying job. Because I am at the top of my classes. Because I’m physically strong. I have to look down on them because they have a family to go home to. They have someone to call. They got to be raised. And I fucking hate them for it. I hate them because what did they do to deserve it, and why did I not.

And as is always, anger takes off it’s trenchcoat to reveal grief underneath. And all I can do is try to cry.