So my mom has no clue. No clue at all what I have spent the last eight months of my life going through. Waking up every single day with my self-hate worse than it was before. Feeling too terrible to deserve anyone to care about me, pay attention to me, or help me. Being even more anxious than normal that I am bothering people. And harming myself and wanting to harm myself more than ever before because of all of the self-hate, anger, and anxiety. No, she doesn’t know about any of that. Or why it has all been so bad. All because of something that I remembered happening to me when I was younger and how I also remembered her failing to listen to what I was needing from her afterwords to feel safe and comfortable. I wanted to send her a letter that I wrote just to give her a taste of what I have been spending my last eight months with. The letter contained an explanation of what happened when I was twelve and how angry I am at her for her horrible way of dealing with it all. But I didn’t because my counselor and I decided it was best not to. But I am still angry. Because is it really wrong for me to want to punish my mom, even a little bit? Because I get to feel every single painful emotion while she gets to feel absolutely nothing. Nothing at all. And she gets to live her life never knowing how remembering this repressed memory has affected me while I have to work through it all. What’s worse, she wouldn’t care anyway. She didn’t before and she wouldn’t now. That’s why my counselor and I decided not to send what I wrote. Because it would cause a bigger mess than I am already in.