Dear Mother,
Some days, I still don’t quite believe it, though it happened to me. Some days, I have to talk about it with other people to “get” that you abused me.
What’s amusing is how you did it. You made it so it seemed almost unbelievable to other people. I mean, hitting me when we were both laughing at a joke? Hitting me with a bowl? Your cane?
Oh, and we can’t forget my favorite, now can we – the shopping cart. There’s nothing like walking through Wal-Mart with your mother and having to make sure to stay out of not only the range of her cane but also the shopping cart.
The thing that makes me sad is you’ll deny it. You’ll make it out to anyone I tell that I’m being over dramatic. That I need to be the victim.
And so I don’t.
Either way, you win. Well, in your way anyway. In the end I win because I had the guts to say, “That’s not right” and get my ass out of there. And you know what? I’d do it all over again, as terrifying as “running away” was.
Because a parent doesn’t hit a child like you hit me. Parents don’t do that.
Not proper ones.
So get stuffed. I won’t play in to you games, and I won’t feel sorry for you.
Bugger off,
Your only daughter
