Recently, I was writing down a scene with two character in a story that I’ve been working on for a while.  It takes place when they’re both in the vicinity of her family, much to her chagrin.  The male character asks her why she hates her mother so much because in the story, she never speaks to her mother.  This doesn’t reflect my relationship with my mother, we talk almost every day but it made me think about a few things because the female/main character answers, “I don’t hate her.  We’re just two different people.” I was shocked because that’s how I felt.  Then her/my ramblings continued, and this is what I came up with: “I realized a long time ago that the only way to tolerate my mother was to accept the fact that I couldn’t change her.  I was gonna have to love her for who she is, not yearn for the woman I knew as a child.  But for some damn reason I still hold onto that.  I want my mom to make me dinner and show me how to do my make-up and make me her number one priority but it was never going to happen.  And I just have to accept it because I’m an adult and I can’t keep wanting my mommy every time I have a boo boo.  Living makes it harder because she’s like the mother I never had, and her children take that for granted.  My mom was kicking drugs when I was being bullied in 5th grade, my mom told me for years that she was gonna get a place for both of us to live but by the time she did, I didn’t want to live with her because I let go of that dream years before, my mom loves everything else before me.  But somehow, I have to accept that.  Time heals all wounds, but how long is it going to take before my scars disappear.  My mother is by no means the cause of my mental illnesses.  Most of the people in my family suffer from depression or OCD.  But the early childhood trauma didn’t help.  I think nobody wants me around, but I have to keep telling myself it’s not true.  I can figure out with my logical mind that that people like me and want me around, but my emotions tell me different.  I don’t know.  I’m too tired to think anymore since I pretty much got everything off my chest.  For now, I’m going to go to sleep.”

And I feel better about putting this in a somewhat public forum because after watching an episode of Bojack Horseman, where he’s delivering a eulogy at his mother’s funeral, I realized that writing can affect people, especially when it comes from the heart.  Maybe someone reading this can feel better knowing that someone else knows what they’re going through and can put the feeling into words.  Hopefully someone can feel better, even if it’s one person.