Mum, I tried to write you a letter

My therapist said I should write my mother a letter. A letter to say thank you, go fuck yourself and I love you – not necessarily in that order but that’s the gist of the assignment.

So here I am, Friday night, alone. I open a bottle of red wine. I don’t particularly care for the taste, but it will ease my irritation. I drink because my therapist told me to write my mother a letter. 

This is in fact the fifth bottle of wine and fifth Friday night I’ve spent working on this letter and drinking to excess. I just don’t want them to know that.

***

Dear Mother,

I want you to know that I am doing well. I have a beautiful beagle-harrier, Milo, who curls up at the end of my bed (I have upgraded to a queen mattress because I have a boyfriend now). Milo keeps my toes toasty at night. She is tricoloured with black spots that end at the tip of her nose…just google a blue tick beagle, she looks like that, but bigger.

Milo comes with me everywhere. I know how you would have loved watching her play with the Doberman. He was bigger than Milo and not many dogs are bigger than her. He was also a goofball.

I sometimes wonder if he is okay.

We used to live close to the Dingley dog park. For those two years, Dingley was the place—

The place I lived.

The place I broke my wrist playing netball.

The place I finally felt free from you.

—I called home. It was nice enough, lots of retirees, some families, but the area was too whitewashed for my liking. You would have found it pretty.

I can hear you saying, ‘Whitewashed? What a load of garb.’ In fairness, the irony of my status as a white person complaining about whitewashing is not lost on me. However, I’m far too stubborn to admit this, especially to you.

The parkland used to be a mining area. Once it was safe to do so, the council manufactured it into lofty hills complete with a lake along the bypass. The dogs aren’t allowed to swim in the lake, but they can’t read the sign… They can’t read full stop!

I am hilarious! Slapping my thigh, I pour another glass of red and — Oh!

By the way, if you’ve got $449 for new car tyres that would be neat.

Pay up, bitch!

***

Pacing is a crucial part of the letter writing process. From my cramped bedroom it’s twelve paces to the kitchen. The kitchen, with its citrus-coloured cabinets, might’ve been cool once, but the retro aesthetic has been out of fashion for some time (and for good reason). Well, at least the stovetop is functional – was, maybe; I can’t remember the last time I used it.

***

Dear Mother,

Too formal.

Dear Mum,

Remember our lunch at the Green Olive Leaf Café? You had said it’s a quaint café and that their bread is your favourite.

You used to say ‘quaint’ as if calling something quaint made it better than everything else, and as if knowing something was quaint somehow made you a better person by saying so.

You said lunch was lovely, but I don’t remember our time in the same way. I remember—

I was balling up my fists under the table listening to you telling me that I should try yoga and – Oh god, this is pathetic… I should have just worn a slutty dress and hit Chapel Street with Emily. She knows how to have fun. A month of Fridays wasted, surely stunting my Bildungsroman. Why can’t you understand that being gluten-free isn’t a choice; her inconsideration is a choice. Instead, I said I was fine, I didn’t need to eat. I just ordered a chai.

—our lunch was awkward. You didn’t think about what I needed; you only cared about getting your special bread.

As we were nearing the end of lunch, you ordered your third extra hot, half-strength decaf latte. You looked disapprovingly at the waitress because her tattoos covered most of her forearm. They were Alice in Wonderland inspired. I thought they were wonderful. I might have asked her about the artist had you not been there.

Do you remember saying, ‘Women will do anything for attention nowadays!’? That made me feel uncomfortable.

***

My therapist wants me to use ‘this makes me feel’ statements to express my emotions clearly.

Writing this letter makes me feel resentful.

Writing this letter makes me feel small.

Writing this letter makes me feel tired.

More wine.

Using a ‘this makes me feel’ statement is supposed to prevent me from writing words I don’t mean.

***

If I had lunch with her today, it would be the same. She would order three extra hot, half-strength decaf lattes, and shake her head as the waitress walked away, shaking hers. We would talk about the weather, the news and other nondescript topics to avoid confrontation. Inevitably, we would butt heads. She would bring up the election, and then on the topic of gender would say, ‘I don’t really get it, you know, the whole they thing. It’s always been XX or XY.’

This is why I am estranged from her – because she’s a bore. Her constant insensitivities and blow ups when I highlight them are a bore.

Things might have been different if I’d had the backbone to leave her. If I’d left her to have her fluffy bread with its perfect crust in her quaint café. If I’d yelled at her and said, ‘Pay for your own damn sandwich!’ If I’d jumped up and stormed out the café, maybe the ground I stomped on would have applauded me. Instead, I sat there, idle, because I love my mum.

***

How much simpler it would be if our lunch were a distant memory. If I had left sooner, maybe I wouldn’t be talking to you in my kitchen. I imagine and reimagine our lunch. I’ve mastered both parts. I begin as the daughter and effortlessly switch to you, the mother. I pretend I’m the director and about to shoot another take: ‘Green Olive Leaf Café, scene four, take twelve… Action!’

We turn and see the spilt milk all over a distressed toddler crying from shock. The mother reassures them, ‘We’ll clean you up, Quincy. It’s all right.’

You remark, ‘What kind of mother names her child that?’

I notice how the mother cares for Quincy. She cares the way a mother should.

I catch myself; I can’t cry now, not here.

After your opinions on gender politics, I try explaining the difference between assigned sex at birth and gender identity. I explain calmy and earnestly.

I just want you to understand.

You say, ‘You don’t have to be so condescending.’

I hate that word; condescending is reserved for an outspoken woman. It’s demeaning.

I tell you I’m not trying to be.

You quip again, ‘You don’t know it all, Sarah.’

‘I know I don’t.’

You ask me why I started all this unpleasantness.

I say, ‘I’m sorry.’

We walk to the counter. The waitress says, ‘That’ll be $56.75,’ through a strained smile. ‘Did you enjoy your meal?’

I say, ‘Yes, it was lovely.’ I hand over my debit card.

You tell me that I’ve always been a strange child and how you wonder what happened, where you failed. You stop and say, ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’

I say, ‘It’s okay,’ and how I look forward to seeing you again. You suggest next time we go to the Beechworth Bakery. I remind you I can’t eat gluten, and you say how that’s okay, they have excellent coffee. I remind you I don’t drink coffee. You say, ‘That’s right, you had that chai drink? They will have those.’

I hug you goodbye.

‘End scene, cut! That’s a wrap people.’

My therapist calls these re-enactments symptoms of PTSD.

***

Dear Mum,

I am happy with my dog. I used to live in Dingley Village. Our lunches were awkward because you were mean to me.

It’s missing something—

Thomas. We used to communicate in our twin speak; how I miss that. I would like to tell you that I spoke to him recently. He barely recognises the woman I’ve morphed into. He looked at me with a ‘What the fuck happened to you?’ expression.

I told him how I’m fine.

If fine looks like hell.

Do you remember how close we were? We were cringingly similar – stereotypical twins, always coordinated. Except for when we went fishing that time, and he caught carp after carp and I complained that the Murray smelled like ogre boogers.

Anyways, he talked about plumbing, telling me how I should really learn the basics. He showed me how a check valve is for backflow prevention and how ‘It’s a finicky thing to install, but it makes the water flow in one direction. Backflow is,’ – I stopped him there.

When I saw him, he said he was doing well, and I told him how I was doing better. How I’ve moved on...

How I’m terrified.

Seeing him hurts because it reminds me of that house – of your house, the house we were children in. And I know it’s been too long, and we’re not kids anymore. It’s not easy to catch up now he’s living in Geelong. I want things to be different, but I’ve grown fond of Melbourne’s hormonal weather… The weather in Melbourne changes a lot.

***

Wow. The weather? Really? A month of trying to write this damn thing and I’m talking about the damn weather.

It’s not as dreadful as the last attempt.

To be fair, I was rather drunk.

Last week’s letter went like this:

Dear Mother,

I hope this letter finds you in a well. Not a typo – I genuinely do hope this letter finds you in a well.

Stop.

I am not the bitter, self-centred person I was then. This week, I can have empathy.

Maybe?

After all, it couldn’t have been easy when my mother learnt she would have twins. Especially considering her righteous belief system prevented abortion from being an option. I should be grateful, as she puts it, that she granted me life. I digress.

Empathy.

Compassion.

***

Dear Mum,

I imagine you were not always like this; I understand becoming a mother was hard. That post-natal depression was not a word you knew, only a reality that you endured.

I imagine the baby cooing gently, and the sigh of relief that escapes my mother as she releases her aching breast. The baby is fed, her mother’s duty fulfilled. One day, that baby will grow up. One day, that baby will wean onto solids. One day, that baby will leave her mother and move far, far away. Away from the drought-ridden lands of Sebastian.

I should thank her, really. She left me without footsteps to follow and I’ve forged my own path.

Thank you for enduring, so I can live. I wonder, do you ever find hope to be exhausting? When you used to spend hours in the paddock, you couldn’t hear what was going on inside the house – how your daughter was crying.

I was crying, Mum.

You never really heard me when I cried. Does the rain still lullaby you into ignorant bliss? When it rains, I think of my flailing arms, of the blood and the cat’s claw embedded in my finger and how you never came.

***

I try to write you this letter while eating dinner. You would describe this dinner as lovely. You would order your favourite fish special. You would wonder if I have enough money for caviar. You would order it regardless of whether I do or don’t.

You would do these things because I am the saucer to the teacup. I steady the storm of your marital disputes. In your infidelity, I am your counsel. I am your support. I am your investment into the future, because you once said, ‘I’ll need someone to take care of me when I’m old.’

So I provided for a while, but even bonds formed by blood have their limits.

I just want you to know I love you. I hope one day you can understand that I had to leave.

I’m tired of being tired from trying.

***

Dear Mum,

I wonder if it's because of you that losing my mind is effortless. Have you noticed how the waves encroach upon the rocks, and how the endlessness of the horizon is suffocating? I wonder why I am so fascinated by the concept of time travel and why this annoys you so. I wonder what might be different if you had stopped me from wearing that ridiculous extra-volume mascara in high school. I wonder if you know that when I look in the mirror, I scrutinise every stretch mark.

I wonder what you would think as a fly on the wall. Am I the woman you had hoped? Would you frown as the morning slips away? When at midday, I finally get out of bed and scramble eggs the way you taught me – how Gordon Ramsay made them on MasterChef – only to fall back to sleep after just one more episode of Gilmore girls. What would you say?

I wonder how much of me is you. I wonder how much of you I hate when I hate myself. The self-hate comes easily but I could only ever try to hate you.

I wonder if you know that I love you. I hope you know I do. I hope you’re okay. I hope that you aren’t missing me too much. I hope you will one day understand that this distance is for the best, that I never wanted to hurt you, that I just needed to stop hurting.

What is the point? Nothing can bridge the canyon between us. I’d like her to know I’m achieving high distinctions in my creative writing course. But I know how she would think me silly studying this and I don’t need her opinion. I’ve wasted enough time catering to her.

Fuck this.

Next Friday, I’m going out with Emily.

Well, that’s everything I wanted to say. I’m sorry if I’ve been too harsh. I hope you can see that I’m doing well. I’ll write you again one day.

I love you.

Go fuck yourself.

Thanks for everything Mum.

Picture by Alvaro Serrano