*Content Warning: This piece contains a references to emotional abuse, eating disorders, depression and suicide, which may be triggering to some.*
Growing up, I always thought you were the perfect grandmother. There was never a moment when I didn’t want to spend the night at your house, even when you lived thousands of miles away. It was so bad, I even kept my own toys and clothes at your house for those “vacation days.” I still remember keeping an old laptop at your house to fill up with my own stories for you to read whenever I wasn’t at your place.
But the older I got, the more I began to see the truth you hid behind those big brown eyes of yours. The older I got, the more toxic I noticed you’ve become. Sometimes I really do wish I could go back to those days as a child when you couldn’t see the negative in anything. Maybe if I was never awaken to the nightmares of your own actions, I still would be able to go back to your house without feeling an ounce of guilt deep inside.
By the time I was 13, you’ve already started destroying my self-esteem. Thirteen years old is already an awkward stage for most pre-teenagers, but you somehow still made me feel worst than most. I still remember sitting in those Barnes and Nobles cafe as you showed me these models in some magazine I was reading just to tell me how that was “exactly how my own body should look.” I can still remember the feelings of guilt I felt whenever I would eat just about anything. Grandmothers were supposed to be the ones to fill their grandchildren up with food, not to be the reason for their grandchild to refuse a plate. Because of you, I had a battle with a little thing called anorexia. Because of you, I felt guilty whenever someone offered me something to eat. There was a time in my life at this point where I actually wanted to visit you just because you never batted an eye whenever I skipped a meal. You just smiled and assumed I was on some new diet.
Flash forward to a couple of years. The emotional abuse tripled. You just became worse with each passing year, except you didn’t just stop at hurting me. I still remember the first time you bashed my own mother, your own daughter. You spoke lies about the very woman you raised, as if she was just some random stranger we met at the grocery store. Did you ever stop to think about how that would ever affect me; hearing lies be thrown around about the very woman who raised me up? You would even throw my father’s abandonment in her face as if it never affected her emotionally. For years, I would ask you to stop, and for years, you’d make promises after promises but you would never follow through.
I never was able to understand how you were able to destroy someone else’s lives just the way grandfather had done with you years past. Growing up, you told me stories about how he went from being someone you trusted to someone you wish you never met, and yet- you seemed to have done the very same thing to me. Some days I even wondered if you ever regretted giving that man the satisfaction of birthing your daughter just because that daughter gave you me.
Now I know I’ve endured quite the trauma as I grew up, but you were definitely one of the most impacted sources for my trauma. Without your harsh words or actions, I might have never have the weight of an eating disorder pinning me down whenever I try to stand up tall. Without all of your constant bashings, I might not have tried to take my own life.
But without the impact of the emotional abuse you’ve put me through all these years, I probably would have never found the strength to stand up tall and realize just just how much I was actually worth. If it wasn’t for you, I would have never realized just how troublesome my upbringing had been. Without you, I never would have found my true, inner self.
So I’m writing this letter to say that, even though you put me through a lot, I still love you, and even if I can never find the courage to actually forgive you for everything, I just want you to know that nothing will ever take away the love I once shared with you.
