Sad Girl Clapback *Now Available in Amazon*

L o v i n g ~ Dear Mother

Listen, Mom: I'm sitting across from you at the kitchen counter, silently waiting to be served breakfast like any other Saturday morning.

My nose is buried in a book; I don't need my eyes to hear the unmistakeable sizzle of pancake batter hit the pan, or to picture smoke from the fried eggs get tangled in your unbrushed hair and white fuzz of your worn-down bathrobe.

I listen to the ceramic dishes stack on top of each other, the scratch scratch of the buttered knife over crunchy warm toast, and the sharp whistle of the kettle boiling.

As I listen to you juggle what people refer to as organized chaos, I can't help but feel this instant wave of guilt crash into my ribs – in my head: I'm drowning; it's those few seconds before death where clarity hits and whatever you've put into the Universe rushes back into you like the tide and you're sucked into this moment of retrospect, love, regret, and shame.

I want to say everything I'd ever wanted you to hear; my thoughts are a map with no routes; only full of hidden locations I've that been keeping from you – mental places I've been that you deserve to know about:

I haven't exactly been the best daughter to you.

When I come home past midnight, and your blood boiled because you said to be home before twelve – Please know that I didn't intentionally try to worry you or cause your heart to clench with stress. I forget that underneath the disappointment is broken trust and I crumble with guilt whenever it happens – because I should know better. But I don't – I'm still young and stupid and I make mistakes.

When you folded my clothes and left them on my bed, I didn't even thank you as I whined about how you didn't wash my favourite sweater. I'm consumed by own wants, and I've taken your constant giving for granted.

When you asked me to do something in the house, and I stomped around, shouting: "O-kay, mom. I'll do it later" - Please know I'm not putting you to the side because I have higher priorities, but because I forget you've already put nineteen years of your life aside to do things for me, but I can't even spend two minutes for you.

When you weren't doing anything out of the ordinary and you asked for a small favour, my voice turned into ice and I snapped: "What" - Please know that I'm not mad at you but I need space to clear my head and gather my thoughts.

When I told you: "It's not fair", I often forgot that comparison doesn't get me anywhere and I end up with sour thoughts about my upbringing and discourage the things you fought hard for me.

Every time I screamed: "You just don't understand" and tears were running down my cheeks and my eyes turned puffy and red, know it isn't that I forget you love me, but I forget you were once a teenager too.

I'm scared that your children are the cause of your heartaches and that we are too selfish to accept the extra weight we carry – that our love comes with struggle, that taking care of us is draining, that we should be responsible and mature enough to shed these added pounds of stress; but as we get older, I learned it's harder to shake off the weight we've gradually accumulated over the years; the habits we didn't bother to correct; we got lazy and comfortable with the problems we hanged by our hips so we continue to make the same mistakes, thinking it's not a big deal.

But I know it is – I'm certain; I'm still scared; we should know better.

I'm scared that after I leave, and you will have nothing left to care for and you will be consumed by worry and get lost in the void you can't bring yourself to fill.

But I'm happy that leaving may mean our extra weight will lift off your shoulders and you don't have to worry, and your heart won't clench as much as it does.