Letters To You (Now You'll Know)

Dear Mother,

I really wish I could talk to you. I need someone to listen to me, to understand. But every time I try to tell you how I feel, it always turns into a blaming game. And you’re never the one to blame. Why is it so hard to listen to me, to HEAR me? I’m not blaming you, I need you. Every time I try to make you understand, you cry and you yell, you shut your ears and open your mouth. Why is it so hard for you? I tell you EXACTLY what I need, again and again, yet every time, you seem to twist my words and overreact. I’M not the one blaming you, YOU are. You feel guilty, and take it out on me.

I know you love me, and you know I love you, but sometimes I need you to tell me it’ll be okay. I can’t tell you what to say, I need you to WANT to say it. Just tell me you love me, and you’ll always be there for me, and that it’s never over. Hold me when I cry, and get me out of this so called “home” when I can’t stand to stay here any longer. Don’t yell when I can’t speak, and don’t cry when I do. I know you have your problems too, and I know how stressed you are, I know what you have to deal with, and I know there’s so much more that I don’t know about. I know money’s tight, and I know you can’t buy me things to comfort me because of it. I know you stress about what other people will think and do and I know you care what Dad thinks, but you don’t seem to care what I think.

You may feel guilty about the mistakes you’ve made, but don’t you dare think I don’t feel guilty about my own mistakes. I know I constantly mess up, and can’t seem to handle any responsibility, and I know I overreact and yell too, but I TRY. I try to deal with the things going on, but at the end of the day, I can’t. I cry myself to sleep and scream at myself in my head. I hate myself for what I’ve said and done to you. But the truth is, I’ve kept so much inside, and there’s so much more about me that you don’t know.

I know that when I tried to kill myself in Illinois, when you weren’t there, it killed you a little inside, and I know that you’ve never really forgotten that feeling, and I honestly can’t blame you, because I haven’t either. That night was one of the worst of my life. I still beat myself up for doing that to Grandma and Papa. I can’t believe to this day that I was so heartless and careless. I know I hurt them too, and I hate that. I hate that Grandma had to worry about me like that, and I hate that I even got that far with her in the house. I’ll never forgive myself for that.

But the thing I remember most about my past suicide attempts, is the time I did it with you there, and how you reacted. You were mad. At me. Once you knew I was okay, you yelled, and you cried, but you never said it would be okay, or even that you cared about me. I remember that. I remember that you wouldn’t let me be alone, but you wouldn’t stay with me either. I remember you didn’t talk to me about it and I remember you walking away, and the feeling that my whole world was over, seeing you leave me like that. I’ve never gotten over that. And now every time you walk away like that, I go back to that day, and I cry and feel like I’m suffocating.

Because the truth is, I never wanted to die; I wanted you to notice me. I wanted you to see how much I was suffering, and I wanted you to do something about it. But ever since then it’s been therapists and doctors who’ve tried to reason with me. Never you.