Dear Mom,

As I begin to explore the true source of my insecurities, I have one big question for you. 

First, I want to put it out there that I’m not blaming you. I know that my problems are my problems. I know that my childhood and later weren’t going to be perfect regardless of the way I was raised. At least to a certain extent. 

But what I do want to know, and what I do wish I could ask you, is why you didn’t ask me why?

Why did you reprimand, and judge, and get disappointed. But never thought to ask why. Never thought to ask what is really going on? 

I feel I never had that opportunity to ask myself either. 

When I was struggling, with grades or my body or alcohol or drugs, I often got pulled aside to have a talk. The talks, in my memory, were often accusatory. A lot of ‘you need to clean up your act’. A lot of ‘you’re grounded’. A lot of ‘you can’t see that friend anymore’. I heard a lot of threats. I often heard, ‘I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed’.

I don’t remember ever hearing, ‘what’s going on’. No, ‘how are you feeling’. No, ‘are you ok’. 

And because of the lack of questions, I also never had the opportunity to be listened to. I never had the chance to explain.

You once sent me to a therapist. Once. I was eleven or twelve. And it wasn’t even about me. You sent me to make sure I wasn’t being directly affected by other family members having issues at the time. You wanted to make sure I wasn’t screwed up by watching others fighting around me.

That was the only time you tried to seek professional help for me. And it wasn’t about me. 

The first time I got drunk was December 31, 1999. I was at a friend’s house with a group of other kids from school. The parents were out, and we had free reign of the liquor collection. I’m pretty sure it was tequila. I have an odd inkling that it was mixed with Squirt. Or something that tasted like Squirt. I guess it could have been Fresca. But I think it was Squirt. It probably wasn’t straight tequila because I know, for sure, I chugged an entire cup. At least. Although, I do know for that first year of drinking, I had a strange ability to drink alcohol without a mixer or chaser. 

It wasn’t my only first that night. There were two other ‘firsts’ for me on that New Year’s Eve. One, I’m going to keep to myself for now. Not that I’m ashamed. I simply don’t feel like talking about it today.

The other first, of many times, was my first experience of puking all over someone’s house. I’m truly embarrassed to say it was not the only time that I single handedly forced a family to have to professionally clean a room in their home. There was an incident years later that even forced a replacement of an entire couch.

But on that New Year’s Eve, I swear I thought I was throwing up inside the toilet. I was on my knees, not the only time that night, and I was puking. All over the carpet. Of the master bedroom. Of a house that was about to be sold to new buyers.

It’s amazing how many clear memories I have from that night. I remember the pants I was wearing. Wait, no I don’t. That was a different time at that house that I wore those super small jeans that I starved myself to squeeze into. Yeah. It was hot out that day.

On December 31^st in the suburbs of Chicago it was most definitely cold. I don’t know what I wore that night. But I do remember being under a table at one point singing Pretty Fly (For a White Guy) by the Offspring. I wasn’t alone under the table. Someone was singing with me. But I can’t be sure who.

I don’t tell you this story to embarrass you. Or to bring shame to the family. I simply wonder, did you know? I didn’t tell you. I don’t think the parents of the house I stained told you either. Or did they? Did you know something had changed in me that night? It was a big night of firsts, but it hardly came out of nowhere. 

There was something within me. Deep inside. Something that encouraged me to drink that much. Of course, part of it was to look cool in front of the mostly guys there that night. To be the girl who drank like the boys was highly coveted even at fourteen. Part of it was to have fun. Be outgoing. Be a great time. 

There was more. I don’t know if I knew it at the time. I barely know it now. But I know. There was more.

Did you?

Did you smell it on me? Could you sense my shift? 

Were you surprised it happen so early in life?

I look at my own kids. Five and seven. So young. When will they start to struggle? Will they talk to me about it?

My questions will never be answered. Not in the way I need. But I know I can at the very least learn from them.

There is a solid chance that my daughter will struggle with her body at some point in her life. It is still so common for girls to have body image issues. Even now. Even after years of bringing the conversation mainstream. It still happens.

I hope it won’t be as bad for her as it was for me. But I grew up in the 90s. I grew up with you, my mom, who owned all the popular diet books. It was public knowledge that you were never happy with your body. Of course, I wasn’t with mine. 

All I can do now is provide my kids with a safe space to come to me if and when they need me.

I know this will absolutely break your heart. And I am so sorry to say it. But I never felt I had the space to come to you. 

Even later when I was older. I kept so many secrets. I still do.

But I don’t want to keep secrets anymore. Shame can feel suffocating at times.

To be clear, I knew you weren’t always going to be mad at me for my mistakes. I know you had a large heart and wanted more than anything to be my best friend. And, in the end, you very much succeeded in that wish. But I was a lousy friend to you. I kept a lot. I never confessed the big stuff. I so wish I had.

I regret not telling you more while you were alive. I regret going through traumatic events while pushing you away. 

I’m determined to not make the same mistake with my kids. 

I hope when they struggle, they will come to me. I hope I can provide them with the ability to ask me anything. To tell me anything.

And most importantly, if they come to me, I hope that I will listen.

I love you, Mom.

Love Rachel