Thanksgiving

Happy belated Thanksgiving. I hope you enjoyed the day as best as you could in these weird times.

Thanksgiving was good. We spent the day at Grammy’s house and ate way more than we should have. On our way home every year we stop and see the Christmas lights, it’s tradition. The park we go to is in Meriden CT. The same town my mother lives in. She is about 10 minutes away from there. We drove through and did our goofy sounds for each exhibit. It’s always silly and fun and I look forward to it. On our way out of the park I started thinking about my mother. About how she is alone. The guilt came on hard and fast. I wouldn’t wish anyone to be alone on a holiday. It isn’t right.

I know that she decided she didn’t want to be in my life. I know that once I wasn’t able to every single thing she wanted I wasn’t worth dealing with. I never, ever told my mom about my mental health. She never believed me. I’d like to think that at some point in my life she loved me. It’s hard to remember. I’m not sure at what point I stopped being her daughter and started being her servant. I don’t think it ever fazed her. She liked to make me feel like the worst child. I wasn’t what she expected her daughter should be. I didn’t call every day like she did with her mother. My grandmother was an amazing, loving woman who took care of me more than my mom ever did. Nanny deserved a phone call every day. She earned the love of her children. I had to earn the love from my mother. She never saw the difference.

I talk to Angie about her when I feel guilty. She was there and saw my life with my mom and Don. She reminds me that that isn’t how parents treat their children. That it is unnatural to be terrified if you are 10 minutes late or didn’t do something or messed up somehow. She thinks that I should reach out to her so I can get closure. A tiny part of me wants to, but the rest of me knows that no matter my mother will make me feel like the biggest piece of shit. She has this power that makes me feel like that scared kid who was the fuck up and she will always be disappointed in me. Part of me doesn’t want to talk to her because I don’t want to give her that power, but also because I don’t think I can handle another interaction like that.

I don’t even know what I would want from her at this point. She will never apologize for anything. She will never welcome me with that warmth people feel from their own mothers. That warmth that I will forever long for. She will never own what happened. I will never get the validation I deserve.

She will never know my brothers. Or my nephew. She will never see the love we have for each other. I don’t know that she would ever be okay with the fact that I have siblings that love me, because they came from my biological father. She would never understand that I have family that actually love me and want me in their lives. That hurts my heart a lot.

Did you know that I sent my mother pictures from my wedding. Pictures of me and Lauren and me and Angie. My best friends that she knew very well. She never even responded. Why? Good question. I don’t know. I thought that pictures from my favorite, perfect day would break the silence. I was wrong. I was let down. Again.

So I’m not going to be letting her hurt me again. She is going to spend every holiday alone. And I’m going to feel responsible. Even though deep down I know I tried. I tried so fucking hard. I was willing to block out the bad to create a relationship with someone who didn’t care to even respond to my attempts.

She will never know how happy Josh makes me. How he loves me, even when I don’t love myself. How he always makes me laugh. How he knows I’m a weirdo and loves me anyway.

And she will never know what I went through with the abortion. How I was told it would kill her if she found out I was pregnant. How I was the same age as her when she got pregnant with me. And that it broke me to think that.

She told me she picked the name Tara because in Gone with the Wind Tara is was kept Scarlett going. I hate my name. It’s a lie. She lied to me. I don’t think I will ever forgive her, especially for that.

Author:

I am sharing my story of why and how I developed BPD and what I am doing to rebuild myself.

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