(A letter I will never send, to a mother who would never read it anyway)
Non-fiction / Memoir
Date Published: 06-01-2023
None of us were raised by perfect mothers, nor can we ourselves be perfect parents. But some mothers sure do know how to ruin a life, well, almost. I say almost because, although my mother's parenting left severe damage in its path and, regrettably, and inevitably, shaped some of the decisions I made, I am grateful to have realized the issues I was facing. So, I now have the opportunity to properly address those issues, to minimize their impact on my life.
This book holds the words I would express to my mother, if I thought she cared to acknowledge my feelings at all.
Many others have been “raised” by narcissistic mothers and have been deeply affected. But it is still possible to live happy lives, free of Mom’s burden. Writing has helped me immensely in this regard.
Depression
can, without exaggeration, be described as an insidious enemy. I feel sorry for
anyone who has to live with it, in constant combat. Over the years, I have
dealt with a wide array of symptoms such as hopelessness, feeling lost, or being
extremely sad and not knowing why.
Many times, I would find myself crying hysterically for seemingly no reason
and struggling with an ardent desire to die. I wish I could describe how odd
that was, to feel something so real but at the same time not be able to
identify its source. How peculiar that the human psyche can pick its own
dangerous mood.
The
toughest moments over the years have often started with an inability to concentrate
and a loss of interest in things I had previously found pleasurable. In those
moments, I simply wanted to be left alone to die. It didn’t seem like an
unreasonable request. As the days passed, my mind would become inundated with
thoughts of death. At times I felt like I deserved to die, like that was what
was supposed to happen.
Was
I worth anything to anyone? That was the question I asked myself quite often.
Eventually, I decided that the answer was no. I was worthless. Everyone in the
world would be better off without me. My being alive was hindering others from
reaching their full potential of happiness. However, I did imagine that if I ever
ended my life, people would cry and feel pain temporarily. But they would
quickly recover.
That
would be because, even for those who were kind and maybe loving to me, the kindnesses
that they showed weren’t truly specifically for me, young Eva Branch. I
always felt like people showed the obligatory amount of attention that good
manners would prompt a respectable person to show. In essence, they did things
for me out of a sense of formal duty and formed no emotional attachment to me.
If
indeed that was the case, it might have been for good reason. I likely didn’t
seem like a person who wanted people to draw closer to me. Maybe that is
because, for many years, I myself was unable to form real emotional
attachments. How did I realistically expect others to respond?
Perhaps
I was giving off an air of aloofness. So, naturally people might have drawn the
line at basic human compassion because they thought those were my
boundaries. Despite their kindness, real or not, though, I didn’t think anyone besides
Dad and my brother genuinely cared about me. And I still felt like I was a measure
of a burden to them.
Although
I was a loner emotionally, I formed physical “attachments” easily. To be blunt,
I had sex quite freely. As I mentioned earlier, I started having sex at the age
of 14, shortly before I started getting periods. Incidentally, I don’t think
you even knew when I got my first period. At the time, I didn’t see a reason to
tell you. You weren’t going to help me understand it or cope with it. Or would
you have tried? I'll never know. But I digress.
Needless
to say, I was utterly unprepared for puberty. And, in general, I didn't know
what to expect from or to be expected to contribute to sexual or romantic
relationships. However, I think part of me thought these types of connections
would perhaps cure my depression. What a foolish notion.
Little
did I know that I would actually be traveling further down the rabbit hole with
each physical act of “intimacy” with others. As I was having sex with more
partners who didn’t genuinely care about me, I was feeling worse and worse
emotionally and mentally. My desire to die was growing. But I kept finding sex
partners who would hopefully provide that coveted happiness.
I’ll
start from the beginning. I remember the outfit I was wearing the day I “lost”
my virginity, as the saying goes. I especially remember the surprised look on
my boyfriend Harold’s face when I offered to have sex with him. I previously
had shown or felt no interest in being sexually intimate with him. We kissed
and held hands, but that was it. Oddly enough, unlike other boys his age, he
behaved like a gentleman and accepted those minor displays of affection. In
retrospect, that made me feel safe and in control of things.
That
particular day though, I noticed the look on his face as his best friend Eugene
was walking into his girlfriend’s house. We both knew what they were going to
do. They were going to engage in some type of sexual activity, whether
intercourse, oral, anal, or whatever teenagers did at the time.
But
both I and Harold knew it wasn’t happening between the two of us. I
simply had no interest. And he had graciously accepted that his girlfriend
would remain a virgin for at least the near future. So, the moment I saw that
look on his face, a downcast look I had never seen before, I decided to
surprise him. I grabbed him by the hand and asked him to walk with me to the
house. From the way I marched determinedly down the street, with him in tow, he
eventually realized my intentions.
As
we walked up the stairs to the bedroom, he asked me if I was sure this was what
I really wanted. Well of course. I was absolutely sure (at 14 years old). I
couldn’t have him feeling snubbed – his best friend was having sex but he
wasn’t. That was preposterous.
And
there we have the start of me sharing my body because it was what my partner
needed or desired from me. I felt like it would make me feel appreciated and
wanted. But no such feeling ever came, not from sex anyway. I had sex with over
40 boys and men before I got married. And not one of those instances made me genuinely
feel the least bit wanted, valued, or less depressed.
In
fact, it would be a few years before I started to enjoy sex and actually want
it for myself. Until then, I took part, seemingly wholeheartedly, because that
is what I thought was expected of me. That was what I believed would cause
someone to really love me and stick with me.
Perhaps
if I could have talked to you about how I was feeling, you could have helped me
see my real worth. Maybe you could have even talked to my doctor about what I
was experiencing mentally and emotionally. I definitely needed some type of
treatment, whether therapy, medication, or both. But it would be many years,
and 1 more suicide attempt, before I sought treatment.
I
know teenagers are notorious for not listening to their parents’ advice. So, the
thing is, I might very well still have chosen to sleep around, cut classes, use
drugs, and do everything else I did as a young person. But, since we cannot go
back, we will never know what my young life would have been had you noticed my
feelings of depression and talked to me, listened to me, loved me.
About the Author
Eva Tillman published her first work in 2023. However, she has enjoyed writing since she was a teenager.
She lived in several regions of the United States before she finally settled in the West with its palm trees and almost constant sunshine. She loves to read, eat, and help others feel good about themselves.
Many people, including Eva, have faced trauma of different types. Unfortunately, the hands of time cannot be turned back. But it is possible to live happy and successful lives, contentedly coping with the slowly dissipating effects of the trauma.
In her most personal work, "Dear Mom", Eva does her best to express herself as she would if she were writing to Mother herself. Perhaps one day Eva will deliver the book to its rightful recipient. For now, she enjoys the liberation of having poured out her true feelings.
Contact Links
Purchase Links
No comments:
Post a Comment