Dear Mom
Hello Mandee,
I am writing you to get your current address so I can send my grand-babies gifts for their BD’s and holiday’s. Apparently the address I have is not right. I have called the Sessions and left a message for them to call me back and asked if I could leave stuff there for them to send for me and I had no reply.
I don’t know how long you plan on not talking to me but I would like to at least be able to communicate with Jack and Vaiyanen.
I have sent things and they come back with UTF (unable to forward) written all over them. I really don’t think this is fare to me what you are doing. But I what can I do.
Please just send me the address.
Thanks,
Mom
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Dear Janie,
I wish you knew how hard you make things on me. My first instinct is to just let it go and move on. To call and talk to you, to give in. But when I think about doing that, it’s not pride that stops me…fear and gut instinct instead. I know it’ll be good for the first couple of months, and after that it’ll go back to everything it ever was. Your Jealousy of Katy, your issues with how I raise my kids. Your judgments, your lies, you inability to take responsibility for your actions.
You told me that I needed to let things go, but…I can’t. I can’t be around you, and let go of what you did and what you allowed to happen to me. I wish I was a better person than that. I wish I had the ability to just take a deep breath and push it all away. But I don’t. I’m not that strong. I’m not that person. I’m not that forgiving. I’m not whole enough to not recognize the gaping reality of what my life was when you were actively a part of it. It’s sad, isn’t it? That I can’t move forward with you. That I can’t ignore your badgering and your shit.
But trying to get to me by way of my kids is just wrong. Trying to use my children against me as a way to open up and talk to you again? That’s really low class. What was that you said? “I don’t know how long you plan on not talking to me but I would like to at least be able to communicate with Jack and Vaiyanen.” How much communicating do you really think you’ll be doing with a 5 and 7 year old child? The same amount of communicating you did with me when I was 5 and 7? Which was…what? Nothing. You can’t just buy my childrens’ affections. I won’t allow that. You’re a danger to me, a danger to my mental stability and my well being. And if you’re dangerous to me, a woman who can fight back…how much of a danger do you think you can be to my babies?
They don’t need you in their lives. And either do I. And it hurts, god damn you, it hurts and I hate you for it. Why can’t you just give up, and walk away? Why can’t you just throw your hands up in the air and leave me alone? Everyone tells me to just let it go, just ignore it. You don’t have control over me, you can’t hurt me anymore. But you know what? What you did 18 years ago, what you did 15 years ago, 10 years ago, 8 years ago, 7 years ago…last year. It’s there. It’s bright and vibrant and it wakes me up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.
You fucked me up. In a big way. And I’m just supposed to tip my head, close my eyes and bury all of it. Just supposed to let it go? I’m sorry, but I’m fucking tired of hearing those three words. Let.it.go. Fuck you. What have you ever let go in your entire life? You’re so miserable, you even make up stories so you can continue being pissed off and righteous. Well, I’m sorry, but I see right through that. Right through you. Like glass.
I don’t want your husband to be a part of my life, I don’t want your mother to be a part of my life, or your siblings. We’re better off without you. We’re safer, happier and healthier. I’m tired of forgiving you. I’m tired of going back when you sound apologetic. I’m tired of you. I’m tired of the constant control you have, even when you’re not here. You make me….tired.
You can’t be a part of this, of my son or my daughter or myself.
Too late,
Amanda
