Dear Mother,

Do you remember…at age three, when I fell of my hazardous tricycle? You stuck my scraped up body in the bathtub and told me, “don’t whine, it doesn't hurt that bad…”.

Do you remember… on my sixth birthday, right after I blew out my candles? I made my friend laugh so hard she choked on a piece of my cheap chocolate cake. I handed her a glass of water as I saw her struggle for a vital gasp of air. “No!”, you yelled at me; “don’t help; let an adult handle it”.

Do you remember…when you made me sit in the courtroom during the unnecessarily prolonged divorce between you and dad while you two battled over custody? I was ten at the time and when I got nervous I would squeeze my hands together. You scolded at me: “put your hands by your side you childish prick”. Your poisonous words burnt through me as acid does to a crisp piece of white styrofoam.

Do you remember… as I played my second club soccer game at age twelve my vulnerable puny self got pushed over by a 150 pound lunatic? I broke six bones in my leg. The excruciating pain that I was experiencing began to stream down my face in the form of tears. Right when you saw that first tear hit my cheek you came on to the field, picked me up, and told me that if I don’t stop crying the throbbing pain will keep whipping at my bones; more discomfort with each tear.

Ever since I can remember you have told me not to express discomfort, not to feel, but…don’t you find it whimsical that a month ago you kicked me out of grandma’s funeral because I didn't cry? Or how about a week ago when you sent mental ward for three days because I burnt myself on the stove and didn't even flinch?

Today I am writing this letter to you to let you know I have decided to live the rest of my childhood with what I have been missing out on; feeling. I have finally begun to experience discomfort the way I choose to and it’s a remarkable thing.

Living life without out emotion is like: breathing without air and reciting words without meaning. I do not know if you remembered those things I said above, but I want you to remember this one thing; now that I have finally hurt — I have become brave, and now that I have accepted that its ok to fail — I know I am not a failure. If you happen to remember how rewarding that moment felt for you…why did you spend fifteen years hoarding it from me?

DISCLAIMER: this piece is a work of fiction

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