I Tried To Die For Her

But it didn’t make my mother love me.

In February 2012, I was 12 years old, and I jumped out of my window.

Not a foolproof plan to die, I know, but I couldn’t come up with a better idea. I intended to land on my neck. Long story short, I ended up at the ER with a shattered ankle and a broken foot.

I surrendered the struggle for my mother’s unconditional love that night.

To understand my childhood, I write letters to my mom. She won’t read them, but other people can. Deciding to share intimate details from my past terrifies me. But, by clicking ‘publish,’ I reach the child experiencing something similar. I connect with adults who relate to my pain. I put a tiny piece of what it means to be human into the world.

Although pulling away from her allows me to heal, the distance means leaving good memories behind along with the bad ones. It also entails giving up any lingering hope that she’ll magically change one day.

It seems weird, but I miss the mundane things about you most. Like the sweet scent of your Cherry Blossom lotion, and how your bracelets jingle on your wrists. The way you arranged my American Girl dolls when you cleaned my room.

I miss the nights you’d tuck me in before bed, pulling the covers tight around my body. How I’d lay motionless, trying not to tear away your hug. I miss leaving you notes at the top of the stairs and checking a thousand times to see if you wrote one back.

These memories hurt because I long to go back in time and live through them again.

Mom, I love you with a force that will never fade. But I recoil to the floor in tears thinking about how much I miss you. I’ve never cried as hard for anyone or anything else before.

I believe you meant those moments. They don’t tell the full story, though. They show the narrative you tried to convince me of, and the one everybody on the outside saw. In truth, you seldom acted like the mother a little girl needs. The ‘happy’ side of you always faded, leaving me aching, hollow, numb. I spent my entire life mourning this loss, over and over again.

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