The Dive Bar Welcomes: A Daughter

Just a reminder for the newcomers that I don't write Dive Bar posts. For more information see the tab at the top.

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You. You cast judgment on me and tell me things about myself I try my best not to believe. But I do. I let myself sink into doubt about my own parenting and worth. Thank God for my support network of friends and very few family members who reassure me you’re fucking batshit insane. Who remind me of who you are at your core.

You. I’m able to laugh off some of your “wisdom” because I was there. I know the depth of your parenting skills and just how far your poison reaches. Guess which one goes deeper?

You. You’re able to cast yourself as the victim when I’ve finally had enough for the year or whatever span of time and lash out. You clamor for support and ask people to intervene who weren’t there when you left your children with strangers who hurt them or their own family members who killed off their innocence. Correction: my innocence. 

You. I live with the knowledge that my own mother must hate me because why else would you say the things you do and act how you’ve always acted? You once told me to “let it go, you’ll be stronger one day for it.” I am, but I should not have to be. But thanks for teaching me to never leave my children with strangers or family members who had abused me. Lesson learned.

You. You blame everyone but yourself for your problems. Demons are a bitch, aren’t they? I know seeking solace in a bottle must have been hard. I get that. But do you know how hard it was to grow up with a mother who was a ghost? Who, when she was there, might as well not have been? You’re not my permanent crutch, neither is what happened to me - repeatedly. I hate you’ve allowed your past to be yours.

You. I hate myself for being born to you. I hate we share DNA and some similar traits. I love that I would go to the ends of the Earth for my children, but I would never harp to them about all that I’ve done for them. Because you do that to me and it’s sick. My biggest fear is that one day, I’ll wake up and be you.

You. I’m writing this because I’ve been the keeper of your secrets for so long, I almost cannot separate yours from mine and it hurts. You want to bring up the past and I want it to stay buried. I’ve had therapy but I was too scared of revealing too much. You taught me to lie for you and for our family and that stayed ingrained in my being. That exposing our secrets would bring shame on me. It doesn’t shame me; it reveals that you are less of a mother and more of an asshole than anything. I knew this, but I still lied to my therapist and she proclaimed me “healthy.” What a fucking joke.

You. I have the sickest relationship possible with you. I hate that my children love you so much that they count down the days until they visit you. I hate that I encouraged them to love you in the hopes that you would love me back. I look to each visit with a mixture of incredible trepidation and hope that this time will be different. That you will have changed. But you never do and it’s always my fault.

I hate and love you so much. 

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