To Mom

Hi. 

Marc says that I should journal. I told him that was fucking stupid, but he just sort of smiled at me in that way that he does and then I felt bad. So I’m journaling. 

For the record: this is stupid. I never want to read this again and I never want anyone else to read this. Why would I write something that no one will ever read? It’s a letter that’s gonna end up in a landfill, something that’s gonna decompose before I do and its stupid little paper bits will become soil. If the universe finds itself funny it’ll probably be the soil I’m buried under. Here lies Charlie, an idiot to the very end. 

Marc told me to write to my mom, and then never give it to her. He says that it’ll help me collect my thoughts, or something. So, fine! For Marc, a letter to my mom. 

Mom: 

I hate you. I think you hate me, too. You never really liked me, even before Dad died. How do you hate a kid? I get that they’re stupid, and annoying, and loud sometimes. I was probably all of those things, all the time. But I loved you, because you’re my mom, and all I ever wanted was my mom to love me back. Dad made it easier, because he loved me for real. He was never mad at me, even when I deserved it, and even though I deserved it he made me dinner and we played catch outside anyways. I don’t even like baseball. I just liked it because Dad did. I tried to make him happy. Just like I tried to make you happy. 

One time you were watching some show on TV. I don’t know what it was and I didn’t even really care. I climbed up on your lap, tried to sit with you and the cat. Because I was a kid. Because I loved you. 

“I think it’s time for dinner, Charles,” you said. I was put on the ground, and you went upstairs. I didn’t see you for the rest of the night.

For Mother’s Day Dad and I made breakfast. You hugged Dad, and kissed him when he gave you flowers. It was the happiest I ever remember seeing you. When I handed you the plate of food you said thanks. I waited. You patted my head, quickly. 

And then Dad died. I don’t really see you, anymore. You work long hours and when you’re home you’re in your room. It feels like living alone, sometimes. I wonder if I’ll ever see you again once I leave for good. I wonder if you would ever want to see me again. 

Sometimes I think maybe I’m being punished, a divine consequence for rejecting the faith I was born into. A divine consequence for loving boys. Sometimes I think maybe you’re being punished, burdened forever with a son you don’t love. 

When I look at us I see our forebears: you and your namesake, the Blessed Virgin, Immaculate Conception. Me as your son, cast in Jesus’ footsteps. Sons of Mary, the blood of our mothers binding us together. Do you wish I was more like Him? I wish you were more like her. 

In Sunday School we always talked about Immaculate Conception. I never understood it. What is it like to be born without sin? What would life be like without the burden of knowing you were built wrong, that you’ll spend forever repenting for just existing? Would Mary love me? Does God? Would you, if I had been born different? 

Holy Father, if you’re listening: I give it all up. I don’t believe in it anymore. How could I, after everything? 

Mom: there are so many things I would tell you, if you cared. Marcus and I beat the newest Zelda game the other day. I brought the system that Dad bought me over to the Rossis’ house and we played it all in one go. Marc and I fell asleep on the floor during the end credits since we had played for so long. I think I might have a chance with Roderick. I broke a wheel off my skateboard the other day and I’m working extra hours so I can fix it. Our band is getting better. You could listen to our music, someday. 

I’m glad that no one will ever read this. How could I ever look them in the eye again? I’m pathetic, crying about my mom like some kind of baby. I wish it was all different. I wish I was different.