18 Years of God Damn Bullshit: A Memoir

First Forgiveness

But after reading her letters and hearing testimonies from my
aunt and uncle about how she almost seemed to be her old self again, I felt my heart settle back
into place after it had been lodged somewhere deep for longer than I knew.

Overjoyed, but trying not to get her hopes up for reunification, I sent a reply filling her in on the time she missed. It felt
intimate, I felt forgiven, and whole again.

In her letters that followed, she told me how she came to find out how I was kicked out of
my Abuelos' house, or as she and everyone else put it, “ran away”.

She talked about being
scared for me, and glad I “turned myself in”. While it stung knowing not even she seemed to be on my side, what came next broke me. She mentioned how I called the police on my step dad a year earlier for what was one of the worst days of my life, but instead of asking if I was okay, or
even asking what happened, she called me a liar. Then recanting, she said even if he did do what
I said, he was “only a man,” and I should forgive him because “men make mistakes.”

I’d expected this from my abuelos, and the rest of my family on my step dad’s side, I’d
tolerated it from my aunt and uncle, but not her.

Was I naive to think she’d choose me over my
step dad, whom she’d been divorced from since I was 8? Was it foolish of me to believe she’d choose me, who had tended to her hand and foot for nearly five tedious years?

Maybe so. I recalled how she always instilled in me “traditional values” of being a housewife and serving a
man because it was my duty as a woman to do everything men said. The line between hatred and love blurred.

In her final letters to come, she tried manipulating me into telling my uncle to send her
more money, which I ignored because I knew she was harassing him enough already.

She wrote me songs, and requested movies to me, making the 3 years of estrangement seem like I was only away at college, expected back come Christmastime.

She talked about getting back together with
my step dad and being reunited with me, and it slowly began to sink in.

I never understood what separated my mother from reality. I’d try to make myself believe she was just in denial, but I knew there was no way it was only an act.

She had been headed down a dark road for a while. Yet I believed in her still. I believed her issues were because of her illness like she always told everyone. I ignored the fact that she took more pills than I’d ever
seen in my life, they were prescribed, I thought, so they must’ve been good for her. But under the fluorescent lights of my 4 by 4 room, I began to realize just how blind my faith was.

While I spent these past 3 years feeling so guilty for leaving her I hated myself, she hadn’t even begun to acknowledge what she’d done.

Even though I hadn’t been taking care of her, even though I wasn’t fulfilling my purpose, I was still here.

I had gotten into college without her. I had had my first kiss, and read Shakespeare without her. I survived homelessness, and
heartbreak, and treachery. And no more could she claim it was all her doing.

She had never been there. She didn’t teach me how to cook, or help me with my homework even when I was living
with her.

I didn’t need her to be a person, and I didn’t need to live her life for her. She put herself
there, and she’d have to get herself out.

With this newfound realization, I began hastily writing my response. I wrote every hurtful word I could think of for every time she’d betrayed me. I told her how I thought she was
crazy, and needed help. That she was sick, and a horrible mother. I told her everything I’d made
of myself despite her. And when I was done, I read it back to myself.

I was satisfied for about a minute before I put the letter down, and thought. Even if she did read it, would it
change anything? I’d said all I’d wanted to say, so why didn’t I feel accomplished in doing so?

I remembered words my mother had said to me a long time ago.

“Don’t forgive others for
them, do it for yourself.”

Was this for me? Telling her how I hate her didn’t make me feel any better. All these years I sat conflicted about what I’d say to her if I had the chance, and now that I had my chance, it meant nothing.

No matter what I said, the past was still going to be what it
was, and my mother was still going to think the way she thought.

It struck me then, that just how I didn’t need my mother for advice, or hugs, I didn’t need her in order to forgive her either. So I said goodbye.

[Original words:// Not forever. Someday, when I feel the time is right, and I’m legally allowed to, I think
I’ll talk to her again. Just to know her, and to let her know me. I’ll show her what I’ve become,
not in spite, but out of pride and respect for the way I’ve handled the lessons she gave me. There
will always be the parts of me she can’t touch, the parts she can’t have back, but one day I’ll
have more than enough to give her, and freely so.]

So for the first time that night, I closed my
eyes, and took a deep breath before speaking out the most important words I’ve ever said.

“I forgive you.”

Now, nearly a year later, I realize the infinince of those words. They must be spoken,
with intention, and like a prayer every night.

A promise for growth, and a path for love to shine
brighter than the pain that has misplaced you.