Deborah Berger asked women to write letters about what they never told their mothers.  Ultimately, she edited a selection of the contributions, along with profiles of their authors, into Dear Mom, Women’s Letters of Love, Loss and Longing. In her introduction to the work, she writes, “We are always linked to our mothers: both to the dreams of the mothers we wish for and the realities of the mothers we have.” She points out that we internalize our mothers’ advice in the form of encouragement, criticism, appreciation, rejection, and solace. Thus, she writes to us, whether we carry it with us unconsciously or have reviewed it and decided what to hold and what to keep, it is in some way incorporated into our reality. I am pleased to post one of those letters along with Deborah’s instructions on how to write one’s own Dear Mother letter.

[Excerpt from Dear Mom: Women’s Letters of Love, Loss, and Longing, edited by Deborah Berger. © 2001 Deborah Berger. All Rights Reserved, Excerpt reprinted here with permission of the authors.]

Beth reflects on a childhood etched with her mother’s anger and depression, and struggles to accept her mother’s decision not to try for a more fulfilling life.

Dear Mom,

It is so hard to write this letter. It feels like pulling a string, and a whole ball unrolls—and who knows what’s in it? Dust, dirt, and pieces of broken glass. There is so much I never told you that I don’t know where to begin.

I don’t know if I ever felt close to you. I must have, when I was very little, but I can’t remember the feeling. I do recall hugging you—and you hugging me back. It hurts to remember my arms around you and how soft you felt.

I know as a kid I drove you absolutely crazy. I asked questions—about sex, about everything!—and argued with your answers. I was relentless. I challenged your authority and power over me.

I didn’t want to end up like you, and I was terrified, for a long time, that I would: that the poison, the contamination in our family, would get to me, like I thought it got to my brother. Something that stole hope, love, and freedom—and replaced it all with a stifling, deadening control. As a kid, I didn’t know what to call this thick, gray fog: It was just “normal.” With my abundance of energy and feeling, I was designated the “crazy one” in the family. Everyone—you, my father, and my brother—all agreed on that.

Sometime, I think during my teen years, I realized that the pervasive, suffocating negativity had a name: depression. Mom, I think you have been depressed for about as long as I’ve known you—most of the time, a low-grade depression that seeped into everything and robbed joy, passion, and pleasure from so much. I remember your anger so well, but now, looking back, I also can see how scared you were. How afraid to admit confusion, fear, loss, love—anything of feeling and of life.

Way down deep, I am still afraid that this toxicity will get me. I know that depression can run in families, that we are all affected by our biological inheritance. But Mom, why do you so steadfastly refuse to get help? Over the years you have totally resisted all attempts by me and by your doctor to persuade you to take medication, just to try and see if it can help. You are bound and determined to be the way you are. You do not want to change. After decades of struggle, I think I have reluctantly—painfully—come to accept this.

Maybe that’s an overstatement. How well I accept the way you are seems to vary by geography. When I am separated by hundreds of miles, I accept your choices. I even have “perspective.”

I can remember your slapping me—hard enough to leave marks on my 8-year-old face. Now, as an adult, I say to myself, “She was full of rage. She was overwhelmed. She didn’t mean to do it.”

I had refused to eat my breakfast, and that was just one more bit of obstinacy than you could stand. After you hit me, I ran into the bathroom and prayed to Peter Pan to come and rescue me. I can still see that little girl in the blue dress in the bathroom, looking at herself in the mirror, at the angry red marks on her face, and wishing so fiercely she could just disappear.

Now I am an adult, and I don’t need Peter Pan to rescue me. I am okay. I have my own life, and it’s mostly a very good one. Still, when I am in the same room with you, or even just in the same house, after only a little while, the air becomes toxic, and I can’t breathe. I remember this so vividly, as a teenager: I had to get away, I was suffocating.

I decided fairly early that I had to look outside our family for what I needed. (And Lord knows, I made lots of mistakes in that quest.) But for years, I still wanted your approval and understanding. When I was 15, I wrote a poem about you:

My mother’s room is where no one goes.
Cool and bare, the walls do not speak,
never greet the visitor
who in the doorway stands
young, wondering, how to get in?
My mother is in there, hidden.

I wanted to believe that you were in there, that you understood me, deep down, and that if only I could reach you, with the magic words, the magic signs, the magic anything, you would become the mother I so desperately wanted and needed. Someone who actually liked me the way I was, who didn’t need to label me as “wrong,” who didn’t want to change me fundamentally.

That was my dream, and it took me years to realize that it was never going to happen.

But Mom, I don’t want to be unfair. I need to give you some much-deserved credit. I know that you wanted the best for me—what you considered to be “the best.”  Intelligence was important to you. And you never—not once—demeaned my intelligence. Instead, you always told me I was very smart. And you praised my good grades and encouraged me to do well academically. So I grew up with a pretty strong faith in my own brain power—justified or not—and I don’t think I realized what a gift you gave me until I was in my 30s.

Despite your emotional turmoil, you also provided me and my brother with a pretty stable life—something I took completely for granted as a kid. It must have been especially difficult for you, being depressed, to keep house, make meals, and go to PTA meetings—but you did all that. My brother and I never lacked for any necessities. We had extras too: art and music lessons and stints at summer camp. We learned to be responsible, work hard, and live by other basic values (“Read every day,” “Pay your bills,” and “Don’t lie”) from you and our father.

On my last visit, I could see you are becoming frail. It is hard for me to realize that. You don’t seem to have rages anymore. Rather, a pervasive, all-encompassing anxiety has replaced your anger. You worry about finding the bathroom in a restaurant, about where I park the car, about a slight sniffle. Nothing is ever okay just the way it is: The food, the weather, the very air you breathe is faulty. You fret and fuss almost constantly.

But—you don’t attack me anymore. Not even with words. We have very formal, polite, almost always exceedingly inconsequential conversations. I have learned not to question you about anything of substance, because you become irritated and change the subject. You don’t ask much about my life, and I oblige you by not even attempting to tell you anything intimate.

I don’t know how much longer you will be alive. It pains me that you have had so little joy in your life.

I so wish that I could see you overwhelmed with happiness, if only for a short time. Steeped in pleasure from seeing your wonderful grandchildren, a sunset, whatever. I don’t expect your joy to come from me; I gave that up a long time ago. But it would be so nice to see pure pleasure in your face, or to hear it in your voice.

It would make me feel really, really good.

****

Writing Your Own Dear Mom Letter

Maybe you’re thinking of writing your own Dear Mom letter.

Sometimes—no, make that often—it is daunting to get started. To sit with pen in hand, or fingers on the keyboard, and actually write down what you have carried so privately, so carefully in your heart and soul. Maybe, like many of us, you are not sure what you want to say, and it feels dangerous, prying open the tightly locked chest where you have kept those hidden feelings.

I know it was that way for me. And when I decided to invite women to participate in this project, I spent several weeks drafting, revising, and refining the letter I wanted to send to them.

Here (in modified form) are some of the guidelines I offered in that first letter:

I want this book to reflect the real-life messiness, joy, hurt, and healing that are all part of mother-daughter relationships. Whatever your truths are.

Some points you may want to consider:

• When you picture your mother, where is she, and where are you? How old are you? What are you doing?
• What did you never tell your mother?
• Why did you never have this conversation? Did you run out of time? Did you never find the words? Were you protecting her or others? (Maybe you did have this conversation, but your mother wasn’t able to hear you.)
• Why do you now wish she would know this? (Some contributors have mothers who died, but the wish may be there regardless.)
• Some of us carry our mothers around inside of us—they cheer us on, they criticize, they wring their hands, they tell us to “Get on with it.” What does your mother do? What would you like her to do?
• How has your experience as a daughter influenced you as a mother? Or in choosing not to be a mother?

Writing the letter is a process of discovery. Along the way, there can be bumps, obstacles, fears, and barriers to writing. Some contributors got “stuck” as they worked on their letters. What can hold us back? Here’s an excerpt of a follow-up letter I wrote, modified to address your concerns:

• We feel a great need to be fair, and this makes us hesitate. Remember that you can revise to your heart’s content. And remember also that you don’t have to share this letter with anyone.
• A powerful internal editor/inhibitor: Your letter comes from your heart, your head, and your gut. The editor in your head can stifle communication, put a lid on your roiling feelings, throw a blanket over what you’d like to get out in the open. I asked my own internal editor, “What are you afraid I will say?” Her answer helped me release some truths.
• A feeling that this letter makes some kind of final statement. No, it doesn’t. Each letter represents a snapshot of the truth, at the time it was written, at the place the writer was. The “truth” about our relationships can change— and often does. So it can be powerful to look at what we wrote at different stages. I suggest you keep those first, second, and third drafts. Honor your journey as you honor this most primal connection, the one we have with our mothers.

Having said all that…

Very early on, I knew that I was dealing with material that was universally powerful. And the intense reactions I got—even from strangers—reinforced that belief. I decided that I would only invite women to participate, but in no way would I pressure anyone.

Indeed, as it turned out, I learned that it was not unusual for a contributor to change her mind. Several women expressed great enthusiasm and yet found they could not write the letters. They did not owe me explanations, but they offered them anyway: It was not the right time; it was just too painful; it was somewhere they didn’t want to go. My response: If this is not right for you—for whatever reason—please don’t do it.

And that’s the same message I would share with you. Whether or not you decide to write your own letter to your mother, best wishes on your Dear Mom journey.