Disenchantment

This could simply be a letter, it could be a monologue, it could be a confession, or even a eulogy. With that being said, take this what you will.

A daughter writes 5 paragraphs to her mother, one separated by distance– both physical and emotional.

It said,

Dearest mother,

I do not know what to say. Or how to say it, really. It is such a funny and silly thing, because just five minutes ago I was on my floor crying and weeping, a regular notion of trying to dispense the hurt that the world, and you, bestowed upon me. Tonight I was, and am, crying about you. It differs sometimes. Some nights, it would be a lover, or a friend, a foe even. Some other nights I weep for no reason at all.

Besides crying, I have done a lot of thinking tonight. I was curious, deeply, as to where the root of this hurt came to be. It is the strangest thing, trying to acknowledge the phantom reason. I do not think I can pinpoint the moment of devastation that comes along with the thought of you. I do not know how deep the blade is, and how you came to stab me with it.

I never really asked you for anything, ever since I was a child. I never ask you to love me more, though as little as you do me. I never asked you to understand me, because truthfully, I could not find it in me to understand you. I never asked for you to play the fairy godmother, or Mary Poppins, and turned my life upside down like all those fairy tales I used to read as a child. I knew, for as long as I can remember, that life is supposed to be this tough. So I never asked you to make me rainbows. I never asked you because I learned how very little you could give me.

I want to make a confession, or confessions, plural. I have sinned many times. I steered and ran and ran and ran from the religion you taught me. And it shamed me to say, but it is because of you. The notion now is so ridiculous and demanding, exactly like what you have been doing to me. I had dreams, of you. Doing things I know you cannot help but do when you’re upset. It is funny how even in dreams, the trauma and the scars followed me. That is why sometimes, I spend my night doing anything but sleep. I have made a somewhat comfortable companionship with cigarettes and wine. They offer me brief respite from both the haunting reality and dreams. After all, how else could one survive in a society who thinks that a lost son is a product of his parents but a lost daughter is a fate made by nothing but her own lunacy.

But alas, one cannot weep forevermore. You may have hurt me, but you once told me that the sun will always be there. Even when you’re not. And I appreciate the sentiment really, it is foolish, but I look up to nothing but the sun, now. The sun thinks I should heal, and perhaps it is not only me that needs to do so, but you as well. It is hard to understand if you ever feel remorse at all, for all the burns and all the words. But I do wonder, if it is somehow a double blade, and you have been stabbing yourself as well in the process. Then who should I blame for this messy, disgusting, repulsive condition called living? Perhaps myself, or you, or some deity somewhere out there. It matters not, even with all the blaming I still have to live. So perhaps, I will, live. Perhaps I should throw some singing in it, some dancing perhaps. I do imagine there is nothing more beautiful than a woman, who chooses to live, dancing in the spinning of this earth.

With all the love I could spare,

Your daughter.