Another in my series of never-to-be-sent therapeutic letters:
Before I knew myself you told me who I was. I'm not sure if we once communicated well or if I simply accepted our non-communication as the standard, but whatever the case, it's not working for me anymore. I don't know how to fix it, how to take the lead or if I should, or what I should be working towards. You're the mom and even though you've told me "you're not the mother" so many times, I have been thrust into that role many, many times and am still put in the role of "Mrs. Fix-it" often enough to have this response ingrained.
I'm tired of grieving for something I never had. I'm tired of the confusion and feeling inept and lost. I'm tired of falling to pieces after every one of your visits. I am sick with the stress this causes me and I don't know what to do.
I struggle to completely accept the depth of our dysfunction, the entirety of my pain, and the hopelessness of our situation-at least in the short term. I hold out hope that one day we will find a way to communicate. I cling to the propaganda of my youth, that our family isn't "that bad," that we're "relatively close" and that we do things together and have fun like most families don't... but more and more I shed that programming.
Whenever I express concern or pain you deflect or negate my feelings. My severe lack of self esteem makes it difficult for me to believe my own opinions, especially in the face of your rebuttals, but my pain is evidence that my grievances aren't invalid.
I'm so tired, so sad, so sick that while I feel some anger and frustration, their flames fizzle to weak embers that burn only me. I wish I had enough oomph for a smoke signal but I'm not even sure you would acknowledge. It would be one thing to be abandoned, alone on an island, but it's quite another to be ignored, and isolated in the company of others, especially those that are supposed to be your closest allies.
Your Lost Daughter,