I’ve always had a fondness for meerkats. Their small, dark eyes and rough, caramel fur have always intrigued me. They remind me of a blend between a rodent and a cat or perhaps a curious African guinea pig. My fascination began at a young age, not so much because of their adorable appearance, but because of their intricate underground homes. Meerkats excel at one thing: hiding. On that sweltering summer day in 1992, all I wanted was to join them, to crawl underground and disappear.
The reasons for this desire run deep. I experienced a challenging childhood, which is a gentle way of saying it was abusive. My father frequently hit me, using either his hand or, more often, his belt. My mother constantly belittled me, hurling insults that chipped away at my self-esteem. By the time I turned eight, I felt utterly defeated. I believed I was neither intelligent nor worthy; I was a failure, a disappointment. The notion of vanishing seemed appealing — to stay quiet, to hide. And so, I did.
I built forts under my bed, sought refuge in hampers, and sat in the dark among dirty clothes. I even attempted to run away just days before my ninth birthday and tried again at twelve, but each time I failed. After my father passed away just before Thanksgiving, my mother, who had been a stabilizing force, became unbearable. Her constant yelling and insults pushed me further into hiding until I turned eighteen and could finally escape her grasp.
My mother never physically abused me; she wielded words like weapons. Her sharp tongue inflicted wounds that often felt deeper than bruises. Yet, she remained my mother. For years, I held onto hope that she would have a change of heart, a moment of clarity that would allow us to heal our fractured relationship. But that never transpired.
We did share fleeting moments of joy. In 2005, I took her to Las Vegas for what I hoped would be a bonding vacation. We laughed and drank together as we strolled down the Strip, resembling the loving mother-daughter duo I longed for. She even shed tears of pride when I gave birth to my first child. Yet, true reconciliation remained elusive until her death from alcoholism in late June.
When I discovered my mother, unconscious and barely clinging to life, I was overwhelmed by a mix of emotions. I understood that her abusive behavior stemmed from untreated mental illness and addiction, and I felt pity for her struggles. However, the pain she caused me was profound. Her inability to confront her demons left me scarred and lonely. On the day she died, I finally breathed a sigh of relief; it was over.
But the relief was short-lived. A few weeks later, anger replaced gratitude. The weight of years of trauma surged back, leaving me immobilized. I yearned to hide again but instead sought help from my therapist and psychiatrist to unravel the chaos she created. Over the course of thirteen months of dedicated work — filled with frustration, sorrow, and self-discovery — I found a sense of comfort. I made peace with my abusive mother, albeit posthumously.
I want to clarify that I haven’t forgiven her in the traditional sense. I still hear the stinging insults echoing in my mind. I haven’t visited her grave and am uncertain if I ever will. However, I did write to her, expressing how her choices impacted me. I laid my heart bare in those letters, seeking closure and trying to heal the wound that festered for 37 years.
Was it easy? Absolutely not. Confronting my anger felt simpler than facing the sadness and shame. Yet, acknowledging my past was essential for moving forward and embracing my present.
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