Dear Mom,

I’ve been staring at a blank page for hours. The cursor mocking me with its excessive blinking. I know what I want to write about this week. I know what I want to ask you. I know what I need help with. But for some reason, getting started has been more challenging than normal. Maybe it’s the migraine that snuck up on me this morning. Or it’s the migraine medicine that put me in a fog. Maybe my brain is simply tired. Regardless, every time I sit down to write I end up getting two or three paragraphs in before deleting it all and starting over. If I had a typewriter, I’d have a trashcan full of crumpled up papers. 

It’s actually sort of funny. The topics I want to write about have to do with feeling judged. Receiving judgment from others as well as from myself. And here I am sitting at my computer judging myself for not having figured this letter out sooner. Beating myself up for waiting till the very last minute. Retracing my steps from the last few days to figure out why on Earth I couldn’t find the time to finish my thoughts earlier. Why didn’t I make a different choice and sit myself down to focus?

Ah. Choices. Now this I can write about. 

Let’s start with my decision-making process. It’ll circle back to the topic of judgment quickly. Just watch.

Here is my process…

First, a decision is made. No, wait. Go back. Sorry. Making the decision is hardly the first step.

I start by weighing all my options. I go through the pros and cons and come up with a decision based on what seems like the best, and let’s be honest, least controversial option. Also highly based on someone else’s opinion. Most often Jeremy’s. I sometimes poll more than one person if said person is a somewhat expert in the particular subject matter. For example, I’d ask one of my siblings for advice about planning a trip since they all travel more than I do. Might even get a third opinion if it’s a really big purchase.

This part of the process can take a while depending on how much time I have on the clock to begin with. Good luck to everyone who lives with me if there is any sort of countdown. Black Friday deals? Cyber Monday deals? Signing up for camp? Anything with a deadline has the potential of putting me in a state of paralysis in all other aspects of my life.

Somehow, and sometimes with a gun to my head, I come to my conclusion. I hit submit. The confirmation email is sent. This is happening. The decision has been made.

Next, I spend a healthy amount of time second guessing my decision. I debate it. Contemplate whether or not it’s too late to change my mind. Can I cancel the order? Can something be returned? If so, I will return it. 

Once it is clear that there is no going back, I sit in my decision. I do my very best to accept it. This is happening. This is set. The item will be delivered. The outing will happen. I must prepare. 

What happens next varies. Usually due to the outcome. Does something bad happen because of my choice? Do I not like the taste of the food I ordered? Do I not like the movie? How much regret and buyer’s remorse sneaks in when I look at my bank account? 

Do I disappoint someone? 

Ooh. Now that one is different. When someone else is affected negatively by my decision it eats me up inside. If someone is disappointed in me. If someone disapproves of my choice. Oy. This is where I spiral.

When a third party has an unfavorable opinion regarding a choice I made. A choice that was made with great thought and contemplation. A choice that I lost sleep over. If someone shows judgment toward my decision? I crumble.

See. I told you we’d circle back to judgement soon enough. 

When others judge me it’s as if my entire world has been lined with mirrors and all I can do is stare at myself and see my truth. All the fear of making a wrong decision has nothing to do with how others will perceive me but rather how I will perceive myself. I’m judging me. Always. And if a third party happens to voice the opinion that was already lurking in my head, it simply reinforces my own insecurity.

In case you didn’t know, and if you don’t by now then you really haven’t been paying attention, I crave acceptance and approval in all aspects of my life. I like to pretend I don’t. I like to walk the world like I don’t care. That I’m easy going. It’s all bullshit. I care very much. I always have. It’s how I got into such dangerous situations in my youth. It’s why I said yes when I didn’t want to. It’s why I pretended to be a chameleon. It’s why I lost my entire identity. I wanted to be the person everyone else wanted me to be. I wanted to be complaisant. I wanted to be malleable. I wanted to avoid confrontation. I couldn’t handle being judged so I contorted myself into all sorts of uncomfortable shapes to be accepted. 

What happened in my life to turn me into this person? Do you know? Was I born this way? Or was I a product of my environment? Did I evolve to be this person due to my upbringing? 

Was I like this as a child? Needing your approval? Was I constantly worried? When did this start? I know I had a lot of tantrums as a child. Not sure if I remember the tantrums or if you told me about them later. But I know I was often upset. Often screaming and crying and running away. Why was I so worked up? Why did we have such trouble getting along? Why did I feel like I needed to be a certain person for you? As if I was required to live up to an unrealistic expectation. 

Oh. Shit. 

I get it now. 

I was going to say that all my issues likely stem from my low self-esteem. That it’s all a lack of confidence. It’s me worrying what others will think. It’s me worrying that I’ll disappoint someone. It’s me feeling like I can never do anything right. But it goes deeper than that. I see it now. It was always me worrying about disappointing you. Because I had my health and my body and my mind and I could do anything. If I squandered that? I’d surely let you down. 

This is because of Paul. Isn’t it? 

Now I see why it was so hard to write this letter to you. I’ve been avoiding this conversation. But I don’t think I can anymore. I think I must face this head on if I ever want to heal.

Until very recently, I saw my big brother as a blessing. I grew up telling the world how lucky I was to have Paul in my life. How fortunate I was to know a world of compassion. To give back in such a rewarding way. I knew you went through a lot having your first baby come into this world with such a significant disability. To give birth to a beautiful boy and then get the rug pulled out from under you when realizing that he’d never have a normal life. I mean really. He never had much of a life at all. I’ve often thought about how challenging that must have been for you to put him in a home. To not be able to mother him fully, though you tried. You put a ton of energy into him. So much love. So much time. 

I told my therapist a couple weeks ago that I knew I was loved as a child. She asked me how I knew. I told her you smothered me with it. You held me tight, and you never wanted to let me go. You were scared. You were scared that I’d end up like him. Never able to walk or talk or have any human experiences outside of a controlled environment. I know you were scared because you told me. A lot. You warned me about all of life’s risks. You created a world that was full of potential phobias. You scared me so much; I ended up desensitized. I ended up expecting the worst. I ended up not seeing the value in life. I ended up having no self-worth.

But I also had no excuses. You reminded me of that. Often. Nothing was wrong with me. Not like with him. I had nothing working against me. If I couldn’t succeed, then I’d be wasting my good fortune. I’d be wasting my body. I’d be wasting my life.

There’s that blinking cursor again. 

I fully recognize this topic is too big for one letter and I’ll likely be unpacking this for a while. But I do have one thing to say to you, Mom. I don’t blame you. I can put myself in your shoes. It’s not hard to imagine. How scared you must have been. How hard it must have been to look at me, this healthy baby girl you dreamt of, who was perfect in all the ways he wasn’t. But I could never be enough. No matter how great I became. And I didn’t do great things. I struggled. I faltered. I failed. I didn’t live up to my potential. I knew it. You knew it. 

My only wish is that you were here to see me now. Because even if I haven’t yet arrived at the pinnacle of success you dreamt for me, it doesn’t mean I’ve failed. The future you expected for me has always been out of reach and, it turns out, I am living up to my potential. 

Perhaps what I need most is to remind myself that I don’t need to live up to the unrealistic expectations that were set for me. I don’t need to judge myself for every moment of falling short. I actually have the power to give myself the approval I’ve always wanted and I can accept that living up to my own expectations is enough for me.

Also, I can let the cursor blink for a while. I can take my time. There is no ticking clock on my healing.

I love you, Mom.

Love,

Rachel