Before I escaped, I wrote a letter to my mother. It wasn’t the nicest letter. I called her out on her shit, so to speak. I also wrote that I never wanted to hear from her again. I e-mailed a copy to myself, which I’ll paste here. I believe I added a few things here and there, but this was most of the letter:
I have removed you from my life. Remove me from yours. Do not contact me. Do not attempt to contact me through others. Do not speak my name. You’ve spread lies about me to anyone that would listen; nothing that comes out of your mouth has ever been the truth. I’m crazy and bipolar? Newsflash – I don’t have bipolar disorder, and I’m not crazy. You are the crazy one. You say I don’t have any friends because I feel that I am better than everyone else? I never had friends because you never let me leave the house. I’m not better than anyone else – in fact, I have a hard time believing I am worthy of anything because you’ve treated me like shit for so long that I believe I am worthless. You think telling people I hurt myself makes you look better? How about you tell them that both your children hurt themselves? I don’t think it’s a coincidence that both your kids are so fucked up. But it’s okay, keep acting like you’re the innocent. No matter how much I hurt myself, it will never be anywhere near as painful as all of the ways you have hurt me.
You never tell people what you’ve done. You are a histrionic, narcissistic abuser. It wasn’t enough that you took away my childhood, you had to take advantage in my adulthood, too. You are sick. One day, everyone will know who you are really are. You are not the victim you play yourself out to be. You were never the victim.
You’ve controlled me for 29 years. You will not control me anymore. You have tried to isolate me from everyone. Some have fallen for your manipulation, but others have seen you for who you really are. You should be rotting in a jail cell; instead, I can only wait for you to finally burn in Hell.
You were right about one thing – I hate you. You are not deserving of anyone’s love. You don’t even deserve to be called a mother.
I ended up editing the letter a couple of times. After I wrote my first draft, I took a picture and showed it to a few of my closest online friends to ask if it was too mean. Someone pointed out that I had written “please” several times throughout the paper; I hadn’t even realized. I shouldn’t have been asking her for anything; I don’t owe her that. I promptly changed it and added more to it, and eventually ended up with the above. I knew I couldn’t mail it from my new address, because the postmark could reveal my location. So I mailed it to a friend on the other side of the country. That will REALLY throw her off.
My friend hasn’t mailed the letter yet. She is waiting until I give her the okay. I’m still so unsure of myself. Is it too mean? Am I going to hurt her feelings? Am I a bad person for cutting off all contact? Will this make her even more angry at me? Can I live without her? I don’t know. Some days I feel like I am ready to take that step; other days I am not so sure. How am I going to deal with the aftermath? What do I do when someone asks me about my family? No one wants to hear that you cut off all contact; they don’t understand that. Either way, soon, she is going to realize that I’m not going back. I can’t leave her with no explanation.