Even on paper, I softened it.

I never planned to send the letters.
I just needed somewhere for them to go.

Seeing them made it too real.

They still hurt.
Just less than saying them out loud.

What I buried so deep.
was slowly being excavated.

And each time I did that,
it felt like picking at a wound.

I didn’t trust my memories.

A tension
between minimizing it
and needing to face it.

Part curious.
Part suppressing.

I wrote the first one with resistance.

It took me days to start.

Journaling was new.
Writing a letter like this felt even stranger.

I didn’t know what it would be.

Angry.
Soft.
Forgiving.

I think I was scared of where it might go.

The first one was to my mom.

Maybe it’s easier to talk to her.
Or maybe she’s just easier to blame.

I wrote three sentences.

“Thank you for everything you’ve given me.
You carried the family while dad didn’t.
We have the life we do because of you.”

That was it.

A few weeks later, I tried again.

This time, I gave myself structure.
Bullet points.

What I wanted to say.
What I needed from her.
What I wished she had done.

It was calm.
Cognitive.

“As painful as this is to admit, I had a difficult childhood.
I know you did your best.
But I still didn’t get what I needed.

You weren’t there.
I was left alone.
Confused.
I felt like I was the problem.”

I was careful with the words.
I didn’t want to ruffle anything. 

Then another.

This time, there was rage.

I wrote things I would never say out loud.
Things that felt too much, even as I wrote them.

But I let myself go there.

“I’m fucking angry at you.

You chose work over me.

Being a provider was everything to you.

I needed you to protect me.

You weren’t there.

I was 7.

And I had to deal with it on my own.”

A few weeks later, another one.

This time, I tried to see it from her side.

“I’m sorry…
You aren’t useless, mom.

I kept what happened to me from you.
I never told you.

I didn’t trust you’d show up.

And somehow, I made it my fault.”

I kept writing.

I don’t even know how many letters there were.

Each one different.
Each one shifting.

A sentence here.
A tone change there.

Different versions of what I’m allowed to say.

Slightly easier to live with.

At some point, I noticed it.

Even in letters no one would read,
I was still trying to make it my fault.