Dear Mother,
I'm sorry I wasted my time trying to talk to you about who I really am. I'm sorry that you are so wrapped up with your own twisted interpretations of life and other people that you have no interest in really knowing me. I tried to talk to you about my autism because I thought for once you might accept my own free admission of some of my flaws while also recognizing some of my genuine strengths. I thought you might welcome the idea that your only daughter is just wired differently, not a psycho b***ch like my EX-husband loves to tell you. You are always saying that you just want me to be honest and talk to you. I'm sorry I believed you and tried to do just that. I should have seen that the whole time I was talking, the wheels were turning in your mind and you were busy twisting everything I said like you always do and trying to figure out how you could make it fit your paranoid, solipsistic version of reality.
Ever since I can remember-- even when I was three years old-- you've never been able to take my actions or words at face value and just have some trust in me. You've always thought it was your prerogative to second-guess me, to dissect me, to talk about me behind my back with family and family friends and thus make me even more alienated. You seem to think that the worse you make me look, the better it reflects on you, because it shows how much of a selfless martyr you really are-- when actually that couldn't be farther from the truth. I know you sacrificed a lot to be a housewife thirty years, but I never asked you to. You thought you were being such a great mother by constantly looking over my shoulder and judging my every thought and feeling, but all I really needed was someone to support me and listen to me. I needed-- I still need-- you to stop thinking about what everything means for you and just actually think about my experience for once.
Yes, my house is messy. Yes, I get stressed easily and have meltdowns, and yes, I often deal with that using self-medication like cigarettes and wine, because no one has found anything else that makes me feel good. Yes, I have obsessive, esoteric interests that you will never share, and I know that but I still like to talk about them a lot. No, I will never desire the amount of socializing that you think I should, and I will never want you to come walking into my home uninvited multiple times a day. No, I will probably never hold down a stable, non-academic job or make very much money so that I can buy you flowers and take you out to dinner. But despite all that, I'm not that bad a person. I'm really not. I wish you'd see that no one except you and my ex (and the people to whom you've complained, who don't even know me) really thinks I am. My professors enjoy having me in class, I have a good relationship with my dad, and my partner and son love me and know I care about them. I'm unique, quirky, intelligent and creative. Would you really rather you had a daughter who didn't write poetry, wasn't working on an excellent degree from a respected university, didn't read obsessively, and didn't have my bizarre sense of humor-- but who knew how to clean house and receive company the way your mom taught you? Do you really want to trade me in for someone NORMAL? Do you really think that having meltdowns and relationship difficulties means that I'm less of a person, that I'm a child who can't be trusted to feed myself and turn the stove off?
If so then I'm sorry, but I will never be that normal person. I guess it's up to you to choose whether to love me, or let me go.
-Your Daughter
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"And there are days when I would be away . . . Oh, wherever men of my sort used to go, long ago. Wandering on paths that other men have not seen. Behind the sky. On the other side of the rain." -Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell