A Letter to my Mother

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. . . I was going to post this in the 'letters unsent' thread, but I did give her this, so it didn't seem appropriate. She is ignoring me so far (I gave her it in May), so I'm feeling rather down about the whole thing. Rather than try to explain the situation, it will be simpler if I just post the letter (which is quite long):

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Mum -


I once heard you say that there are things regretted saying, and things you regretted not saying, to your own mother before she died. I am writing because I feel that there are a lot of things that have been left unsaid between us, which cause me a great deal of pain and unhappiness. This letter is an effort to untangle some of the unspoken griefs that continue to exist between myself and the rest of the family. You must surely admit that the manner in which we parted ways, and continue to be separated - emotionally as well as physically - is painful, regrettable, and unworthy of us as people who know the value of this life and the time we have left to communicate and speak as we really feel.


You are my mother, and I know that you care for me deeply. Ill-versed as I may be in matters of emotion and the human heart, I would see the fact in your eyes when you looked at me, and hear it in your voice, whether your words were in kindness or in anger. There is something I have often wanted to ask you, but have never had the courage to. Knowing that I have little left to lose as far as relations with you go, I ask it now: Why, when my father was hitting me, throwing me against walls, dragging me upstairs by the hair, flinging heavy things at me and violently overturning everything in my room, did you never intervene and protect me? Did you think these were appropriate things to do to a child? Were you scared that he would do the same to you? What was it? There is one instance that I recall, and no less painfully with time: I, as was the fashion, had found myself in disgrace for some real or imagined slight to my father's ego ('being cheeky' was the usual phrase applied to such things). I was ironing some things for you, in an attempt to re-ingratiate myself, however unfair I felt the fact that I should have to, the situation being enormously out of proportion due to Dad's customary over-reaction. He came into the room, and a brief conversation passed between us, which culminated in him flinging a heavy book at my head with force, and saying "God, I hate you." You were in but the next room, and you did nothing. You said nothing. Another awful memory that brings me almost to tears whenever I recall it is one in which you and Dad were sitting on the settee, and I in the chair beneath the lamp, by the fireplace. I was, as I remember, being told the error of my ways following a protracted period of being ignored by both of you - again, I think, due to Dad not liking the way I spoke to him. All appeared to be going well, until he, without warning, hurled a remote control which struck me hard in the face and broke into pieces. "Now look what you've done," you spat at me. Aside from the obvious folly behind your comment, did you really think that this treatment was what I deserved? I find it hard to believe that you did not see such things for what they were. There are countless such instances of this sort of behaviour from my father, beginning when I was little more than a baby. I cannot remember them all with the same detail, but I remember with a miserable clarity how each made me feel. Throughout my time living with you, I spent days in my room avoiding him, with the same writhing grief that has been familiar to me ever since I was small. It chewed at my nervous stomach, and told me that it was my fault that things were as they were. I know this to be wrong now. I am learning that I did not deserve to be treated like that, and that the failure was not mine. The constant fear of being kicked or hit, or having something flung at me made me a withdrawn, anxious child with no self-esteem to speak of. I therefore suffered from depression, problems controlling my own anger, and an eating disorder. I was bullied throughout school, and where home should have been a refuge, it was instead an intimidating place where I was constantly tense and frightened for the next inevitable time when Dad took exception to something I said, and I would be ignored and sneered at for days on end by both of you, and subjected to random interludes of violence from Dad. Do you see now that I felt loathed at school, and hated in my own home, purely as a result of my father's insecurity and unwillingness to learn to control his anger, and of your mystifying failure to stop him from treating me like this? At the start of my adolescence I began to see a psychologist, which might have helped a lot, had it been allowed to, but ridiculously I was abruptly forbidden to continue doing so because Dad had taken some unspecified dislike to the idea.


I think I must have been about twelve years old, on the occasion when Dad wrote me a letter detailing his grievances about me. As I recall, the gist of it was that I (I, not he!) had 'turned the previous Christmas into a war-zone', that he did not love me, and would not love me unless I behaved precisely as he wished. Did you read this before he gave it to me? If so, did it not occur to you the dangers of making a child feel that she is valued only insofar as she meets the wants of others, especially a child who already feels worthless and unloved as it is? You both seemed surprised and in no small measure annoyed when I did not reply to it. Try to understand now why I did not. Another disheartening example of my father's curious combination of egotism and insecurity, he at one point or another, began to force me - on pain of flinging yet more objects at my head and telling me how appalling I was - to come and greet him when he returned from work every night as if I were really pleased to see him, because he was apparently vain enough to be satisfied with such a pretense. In truth, I held him in great contempt for demanding such a petty thing, and in fact dreaded his appearance, because I found it impossible to predict which of my words or actions he would take offence at next. He always seemed unduly concerned with whether or not I 'respected' him. I will be very surprised if it is necessary for me to tell you that I did not. Sad as it is, he had done nothing to earn my respect, and much to kill it. I find it impossible to respect a man who cannot keep his temper so that he will harm a little girl, and who will continue to try and control her throughout her childhood by violence and intimidation. Such a person is a coward and a bully - nothing more. It is extremely difficult to respect someone who clearly has very little respect for himself. He was fond of presenting the fact that he fed and clothed me as evidence of his parental goodness, but it was obvious to me, even as an infant, that this is the very least one should do for a child that one decided to bring into the world, and to whom one is responsible. That I was forced and intimidated into pretending that I respected and liked him when he had done everything to kill such feelings, rather than be allowed to behave as his own treatment of me warranted, merely encouraged and validated his behaviour. Do you see this? If you did not then, try to now.


Because of how things have been throughout my life, I have always assumed that I deserve to feel that I have little to offer, and that there is a good reason why I automatically assume that other people will have no interest in me, and if they do, will ultimately not like me. I never questioned the fact that I awoke each day feeling depressed and overwhelmed, and I always assumed it was normal to feel permanently anxious, as if some catastrophic event constantly hovers on the horizon. I am now slowly beginning to realise that there is no good reason for me to feel like this, and that these things are not normal. I never deserved to feel as I always have, or to be ignored for days on end, or to be told I was hated, or to have things hurled at my face, or to be repeatedly slammed against walls. Clare, and anyone I ever talked about it to at school told me many times that I should contact Childline, or a similar organisation. I never had the self esteem or courage to do so, fearing what Dad would do in response, but I know now that I should have done. I regret not doing so often, because things could perhaps have been much easier for me. Consider the ramifications, though, had I done so. There would have been a very real possibility that both Grace and I would have been taken away from you, and my father would perhaps have gone to prison. Do you see now, the seriousness of what was happening?


The manner of my leaving your home is at least as painful as the mishaps that preceded it. I have tried to explain to you before the effect that Adam's illness had on me, and will do so again. Throughout my time at university, Adam suffered with anorexia, which meant that less than a year after meeting him and knowing that I wanted nothing more from life than to be with him always, I was faced with the very real and terrifying possibility that he could at any moment die from heart failure, such was the extent of his malnutrition. This could have happened, and because his mother had already taken it into her head that I was to be ignored, I would not find out until the fact became obvious from his lack of correspondence. He did not write to me often as it was, being often too unwell, and so every day that passed could have meant that he was gone, and because his mother would not pass on my messages satisfactorily, I had no way of finding out. The prospect of losing him was - and is - so terrible that I have no words, no means of expressing my despair and anguish. There was no possible means of communicating my terror and absolute misery, and so I didn't in any satisfactory measure at the time. All I did was cry and fail my exams. You remember. You were there. It must have been obvious to you that the situation was having a profoundly unfavourable effect on me. My father added to the unpleasantness of the situation by sending me from the house at this time, back to Cambridge, because in my woe I was proving unpersonable and inconvenient to have around. It is of no matter now. I expect nothing more from him. Whilst Adam's physical condition improved, my psychological state was considerably damaged by the whole affair, and as you may know, I developed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I was suffering from it at the time you and Dad decided between yourselves to get rid of me because I was tiresome to you, and still suffer from it now. I would once and for all like to know the truth: was it not obvious to you that I was having great problems mentally and would have benefitted from support and understanding, rather than being abandoned and made to feel, once again, uncared for and disliked? I was having trouble sleeping, eating, even talking normally due to the depression and anxiety that come with PTSD, and yet you somehow failed to notice this, or if you did, you did not care enough to help me through it. You instead made it very obvious that I was unwanted in your house, and then proceeded to bother with me as little as possible. Do you ever regret any of this, either of you? I have never understood. You seem to pretend it didn't happen. What hurt nearly as much, childish and spiteful though it was, was the fact that Dad deliberately deleted my computer account and its treasured contents - some writing, and some photographs that were precious to me - the day I left. Doesn't it concern you that you are married to the sort of person who would do something like this? He did not bother to say he was sorry at the time, and nor has he since. As I dragged my suitcase up your drive for the last time, I received nothing but a curt 'Good luck' from him, as he was for some reason being very cold towards me, despite the fact that I was leaving as requested. Do you ever feel any sorrow that our manner of parting was so needlessly cruel and stilted? You have never displayed anything of the sort, as far as I can see.


Grace is, and will always remain, inexpressibly dear to me. When I had been confined to my room and ignored, for something so paltry as picking my nails or 'being cheeky', she would come to me in kindness and talk to me, though she knew she would be in great trouble were she found out. As someone who came to know the value of love and kindness more than most once wrote, 'men have gone to heaven for lesser things than that'. My friendship with her - one that I will admit I did not always appreciate as I should have done - was a lovely link with humanity, indeed, one of the few that I had. It lives now, not as the cherished thing that it once was, but as a pale memory that pains me by its very presence. Grace said herself, shortly before I left your home, that she no longer enjoyed being around me because I 'had changed'. This I can live with, and indeed have had to, though it saddens me uncommunicably. What I cannot endure is to pass, like a forgotten spectre, through the rooms in your home that were once the scenes of such companionship, but that are empty and sepia-tinted to me now. A life, left behind by all but me, speaks to me from the dust on the surfaces I once knew so well, from the books I loved, and from the room that was once mine, but that is now merely an oubliette for items that you don't need. Fitting, perhaps, but painful to see nonetheless. On the rare occassions that I have visited your home, I have felt very anxious, sad and uncomfortable. I worry that Dad and I will argue about something and he will strike me or throw something at me. Because I do not have the necessary social skills to tell whether or not I am speaking in a way that others may not like, seeing and talking to you and Dad, whether on the phone or in person, is very stressful and leaves me feeling anxious, sad, and at odds with myself. As I have mentioned, I feel that I have to pretend that things are going well when they are not, otherwise the mention of any problems I may be having will somehow lead to some kind of argument. I have never understood quite how this happens, but it always seems to. The pressure, too, to pretend that none of the instances of violence and emotional abuse mentioned in this letter never happened is extremely demanding, and leaves me feeling worthless and alone.


I have, as you know, now been diagnosed with an Autistic Spectrum Disorder. This means, amongst many other things, that I have little idea of the social conventions and conversational nuances that other people understand and employ effortlessly, and also that I find it almost impossible to hide my feelings. I hope this sheds some light on the fact that as far as you and Dad were concerned I was a wilfully disrespectful child, and one who refused to respond to repeated and increasingly harsh punishments over the matter. I did not respect Dad, because he never respected me, and it could be said that I was medically unable to pretend otherwise. I am not ashamed of this, and nor should I be. I expected, when you received the news of my being diagnosed with Autism, that you and Dad might make such realisations yourselves, and perhaps invite me to your home to discuss the matter, or at least write to me in some expression of regret, both at my diagnosis and at the fact that related problems unfortunately made my childhood very difficult. You did not. When I visited of my own accord, without any invitation or intimation from either of you that I was missed, you both seemed inexplicably annoyed with me, and very eager to avoid the subject of my diagnosis when I brought it up, which I hope you can appreciate was a difficult thing for me to do. You have not invited me to visit you in the two and a half years I have been gone, and you contact me very rarely. You have yourselves visited me once in this time, and you went home after half an hour. You will forgive me, then, for coming to the conclusion that you are quite content without me, and that if we do not contact another for a very long time it will be of little concern to you. Given this family's dismal past record at resolving conflicts successfully and at talking over problems reasonably, I fully expect a complete severance of our relations to be the result of this letter, as I am unwilling, for the sake of my own mental health and happiness, to continue with the charade that currently constitutes our exchanges. I should not have to pretend that you and my father have not caused me immense grief and trouble and that I am 'fine' after everything that has happened, and nor should I have to pretend that I am much happier than I am in reality whenever I speak to you, or am in your presence. It is unbearable, and yet this is what I have always felt that I must do. Speaking the truth and facing it may be a painful thing, but living in silent denial of it is far more so. I am no longer foolish enough to lie to myself and others in the name of misguided virtue.

I have written to you specifically, after toying with and discarding the notion of attempting to broach the subject with my father. You do not need me to tell you that he has much to learn, despite his now advanced years. If I try to speak the truth to him, to hold up a mirror that he may understand himself and I better, he merely rages briefly at his own reflection before turning on and denouncing me as the author of failures that are his own. I tried - I don't know whether or not you are aware - to write to him earlier this year in such a manner as might cause him to reflect and realise his wrongs, having been angered by the rather condescending and ill-informed e-mail he sent me about the fact that I am umemployed. His response, after writing back in an abusive manner, was either to not bother reading my e-mail in reply at all, or to read it and then, lacking the courage or inclination to compose a suitable response, pretend that he had not read it. This makes him either callous or cowardly. Whichever it is, he seems content to remain so, and the matter made me resolve to contact you instead when next I write again regarding any matter of importance or delicacy. You may wish to show this letter to him, and I hope you do. Alternatively, you may wish to hide it and forget you ever read it. I think you know, though, that such an act would be an insult and a shame to all involved. You must know too, that if you choose not to make my father aware of my conflicts and struggles, and of my desire to release them so that I may heal, then my relationship with the rest of you will forever remain a stunted, hardened version of what it could have been. If the things mentioned here are not acknowledged and accepted, then there is little hope of my ever being able to talk to or be around either of you as a daughter should be able to. In this case, it will be better for me to bid you farewell for the forseeable future - not through pique or spite, but through a simple and sincere need to leave behind all the bad that has been done. The matter lies in your hands, and I will accept your decision. I will not be disappointed, having learned a long time ago that any hope I had of understanding would be dashed, in part due to Dad's inability to discuss things normally without flying into a rage and trying to make me feel bad about myself, and in part due to your unwillingness to tackle problems by talking about them. If the only response you and Dad have to this letter is anger, and if you think I am in some measure unreasonable, and you decide to shun me further, then I can tell myself that I at least tried. I lost you, Dad and Grace as a family the moment you said that you no longer wanted me to live in your home that morning in September, nearly three years ago now. I know already the sadness that such separation can bring. You can't hurt me any more.


If you can feel any kindness towards me as a result of this letter, then it will be welcome, but unexpected, even so. Not that I imagine you will, but you must not in any way feel obliged to entertain me if you don't feel moved to do so. That fact will tell me all I need to know, and merely underline to me that we are better off without one another. It will help, though, if you will admit, to yourselves and to each other, that you hurt me greatly. Then you may be able to truly acknowledge the problems I continue to have as a result, and feel able to reach out to me, to say that you are sorry for how things have been, and perhaps express some hope for things improving in the future. If you will acknowledge the fact that I could (and should) have been treated better, and show some regret for the fact that I wasn't, then forgiveness will be waiting for you.


If I do not hear from either of you again, know that I wish you both well, and will not hold bitterness or hate in my heart, for this letter represents the first step in forgetting and embarking upon the life that I deserve, with no-one to make me feel unworthy of it.


Your estranged daughter.

Sophie.


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I got a friend to edit it for me, to ensure that it wasn't going to seem too caustic or angry . . . but they still don't seem to care that this is how I feel. As I said, it's bringing me down today, because I just learned that my parents are buying my sister a really extravagant graduation present, whereas when I graduated they didn't get me anything at all. I'm going to do some cooking and cleaning to try to distract myself.

You don't deserve them(they are awful). I suggest you move on and try to be successful. I will never understand the utter lack of empathy that NTs have for others. It continues to astound me. Perhaps some counseling and adopting friends as family would help. A lot of times you can volunteer at a nursing home or other such place and there are people who are lonely and would LOVE company....to visit with, share holidays with giving them presents and visiting, and just talk to. I would not give these people any further consideration. It was a lovely letter and considering the circumstances quite fair. You could join a mentoring program of some sort. It sounds to me like the only relationship worth saving from your family might be your sister and that is a might and not a definite. Your parents I would have no further contact with. As for not having a job the economy is awful and many people don't have jobs and that does not reflect upon their worth as people. How one treats others is the true measure of a person's worth not how much money they earn.

Your parents seem rather uneducated to me. Could it be that they COULDN'T respond to it because it had "too many big words" and probably couldn't read it to begin with?
Also, who is Grace, if I may ask?

Thank-you, Kate123A, for the kind encouragement . . . everyone I tell about this says similar things to you - that I deserve better and should move on. I am trying to do so - it's just a matter of shaking off the ingrained guilt and belief that I'm somehow a horrible person.

Fire Minstrel, I don't think it could have been that they don't understand the letter. They're a bit dense in many ways, but I know that they will understand exactly what I am saying . . . which I suppose doesn't mean they will know how to make a suitable response. Grace is my younger sister. I miss her.

My parents are exactly like that (and they are both highly educated) - your letter moved me deeply. At 24 I was still desperately trying to get their acceptance and love and I knew deep inside I was the only one to blame for everything - if only I tried harder, if only I did better... Ten years later, I have my own life, a husband who loves me for who I am, regained my self-esteem and moved on. The scars are still there, of course, but I have more peace of mind than I thought possible. You're very brave - I'm sure you'll make it.

A word of warning though - don't get your hopes too high as far as their reaction goes. Maybe they'll be able to take responsibility and help you get closure - I really hope they will. What I've learned with my own father is he cannot do that - I think admitting to himself what he did to me would just destroy him - guilt can be such a devastating thing.

I hope you find your peace and healing - as I said, I think you're very brave and I really admire you.

Thank-you so much for that, Sallamandrina - you must be really strong and brave too to have made a happier life for yourself from the rubble that this sort of thing results in, and it gives me hope that it can be done. I'm so sorry that your parents were rubbish too.

I am trying to tell myself that I don't expect or want a response . . . but at heart I do really. I'm trying to forget it, though - after all, they haven't exactly been helpful about it so far. Thankyou again for the advice and encouragement

To be honest, I was pretty devastated when I tried to confront them with such poor results. I had high hopes as I was careful not to make emotional accusations but rather ask for a fresh start. My father tried to hit me and I don't know what would have happened if my husband wasn't there. Some ugly things were said, too. In a way, I pity my mother - she just says "We did what we thought was best for you" and really believes it. I too wrote her a letter when a psychologist (unofficially) identified me with AS - but never actually got an answer - she told me she didn't know what to say, but also said something along the lines "since it's confirmed there was something wrong with you from the beginning, why do you blame us for what we did?"

But you have to move on, you can't let them ruin your life. I live abroad and haven't seen or talked to my father in years - I call my mother and sister about once a month and have a very "superficial" talk - you know, how's the weather and stuff. Once I've managed to accept the idea that I can't expect anything from them I almost felt relieved - the hopes and expectations were the ones causing the worst pain.

This letter made me feel so sad! [b] Poppycocteau [b] you are an amazingly strong person, i am so sorry for the grief that you are going through and thats what it is realy is grief, you are grieving for the parents you should have had and also grieving for the parents you have now lost, I have been through dificult times with my daughter and sons, they are still young my daughter has just been diagnosed at 10 and i look back at my frustration that i have felt along the way with her and i feel nothing but guilt! I have in no way treated her in the way that you have described in your letter, but i have had quite a few arguments with her over clothing and food issues and some other things along the way ( i now hang my head in shame over this) but i now have an understanding in what is going on with her and my sons (yet to be diagnosed but i know the outcome) As a parent i just can not comprehend hurting your child emotionaly/physically like yours have done to you, it would be so easy for me to say to you that you just need to move on and forget about them but that is so much easier said than done. I really wish for you to be able to find peace in your life, you have survived and come though a very tough time, hold your head high and work on healing yourself, thank you so much for sharing your letter it was heart wrenching. I am sure that it is going to help many parents who read this like it has done for me, I am at this moment working on overcoming the guilt i feel for the frustrations that i have felt along my journey of raising my AS kids <they are my life> (hugs )

Sallamandrina - that's shocking. He actually tried to hit you, even with your husband there? I can't understand that. My father is really unreasonable, but I'm not sure he'd stoop quite that low. My mother says a similar thing to yours, from what I can understand of her garbled excuses . . . though, ridiculously, she seemed to make the point that I was a jumpy child to begin with, so what did it matter if my father's violence made me jumpier?

I'm going to start trying to focus my energies on forgetting them, and on creating a meaningful life for myself. I have friends who I really care about, my health, and a mind in good working order, and in because of this I'm really lucky, and I mean to cherish these things and make them count.


Mahini, you are right, I think, about me missing things I didn't have, and things I did but don't now. Thankyou for reading the letter, and for your kind words and wishes. I will try to hold my head high, as you say, and work on rebuilding my self esteem. I hope you'll stop feeling bad about past quarrels with your daughter - what really matters is that you have invested time and understanding in helping her, and you'll continue to do so - she is incredibly lucky in that sense. *hugs back*