Letter

Our dearest child, it is a matter
of the deepest regret and profound
anguish that we have so utterly
failed in bestowing upon you the
understanding of quite how much
you are loved by us, your parents.

Your father professes to know the
psychological basis of your deep and
now immovable psychosis; your belief
that you were an abused child. I have
no such pretensions to knowing where
your grievance emanates from. My
memories as your mother defy yours.

I think: how can it be possible that
two young parents, in perfect harmony
devoted to their three children, living in
a stable emotional environment,
expressing their care and love for one
another, have yet produced a childhood
so inimical to healthy maturity?

Your personality, like those of your
brothers, is uniquely your own. Unlike
theirs, yours was demanding, abrasive,
defiant, nettlesome, creating a chaos
of confusion among and within us. A
firmer direction than theirs was yours.

But support, stimulation, and opportunities
to advance your interests and skills were
also there. As a young family we shared
and encouraged and experienced together
all manner of social, cultural, adventurous
and mind-enhancing events, binding us
as a loving unit, in healthy accord.

Few efforts were spared by us on your
behalf; we spoke freely and encouraged
open debate and thought. Your formative
years, you inform us now and again, were
freighted with a burden of blame and
accusations where you were singled out
for parental censure, unlike your siblings.

To this psyche-crushing past are all
your ill choices in life and their sorry
conclusions attributed. We anxiously
search our flawed memories and find
nothing there consonant with yours.
What we do recall, even as we continue
experiencing more of the same, is a
child mature in years, still testing us.

So, dear child, we apologize for our
inability to serve your needs, our
incapacity in ensuring that you were
well blessed with that most basic of
childhood needs; an inviolable sense
of security and trust. And confidence
in yourself. You were, and remain,
capable, intelligent, motivated, talented.

That heavy, black cloud of discontent,
that elusive sense of happiness and
satisfaction denied. That we never managed
to lift that oppressive dark cloud long
enough for the rays of comfort and content
to settle over you is a matter of profound
unhappiness to us. As it has always
been for you, our very dear child.

If our realization of having dismally
failed in that most elemental task of
parenthood cannot aid and comfort you,
we understand full well that nothing
will ever emerge to help heal that
festering wound. For that, we are
immensely sad. What else could
we have possibly done back then?

The clarity of my memory refreshes
the vision of a child whose incessant
anger and grievances would not be
abated. One whose bleak lack of joy
brought unease to my heart. Of an
adolescent whose hateful invective
lashed our sensibilities. Of an adult
whose emotional attachments remained
tenuous and fraught with controlling
spite, ultimately severing all intimacies.

And there we were, in the background,
quietly helping to pick together the
fragile remnants. And here we are,
yourself now mother of a young girl
emerging into early adulthood, and you
possess her, inserting yourself into her
pride of self, autonomy of thought and
action, finding fault where none exists.

We despair. Fearful for your teetering
balance of mind and incendiary thought.
You hiss your disdain of us, though
need is absent, for we cower under your
withering voice. We anguish for our
grandchild, and dread our fear of the
future. What more can we possibly do?