Life Without Mother

Dear Mom,

Yeah, it’s been a day or two or fourteen since I last wrote. Nothing personal. But it’s not like you’re here to read these anyways. I’m sorry, that was kind of harsh. The past two weeks have been filled with frolic and fun and frustration and—let’s see—what’s another appropriate f word—oh, how about fear? Maybe? Yes, that’s an accurate term. But along with that fear came anger and sorrow and overall, lots of pain. Don’t get me wrong, the past couple of weeks have held much pleasure as well (Christmas choir concert, scarf exchange, a Christmas skit where I got to fake-punch a guy—super fun by the way—and winning our first Sigma Phi Lambda intramural volleyball game). I’ve just been on this intense emotional roller coaster that can’t seem to give me a break. I think I’m getting a breather and then—BAM!!! Satan comes back at me again.
The thing is, I actually did write a letter this week. It just wasn’t to you this time. This time, it was addressed to God. It was a frustrated, hurting letter. God could handle it though. I had a nightmare last Wednesday during an afternoon nap (do I not even get a reprieve during the day?). It didn’t have to do with what I had been stressing over throughout the week before. In the nightmare I spoke to Mary Faith and suddenly found myself very angry. Frustration might be a regular thing for me when talking to Mary Faith, but anger, not so much. And especially anger that intense—a ball of fire flowing through my entire being desiring to explode. But I knew in the dream that this anger wasn’t towards Mary Faith, so I did the only thing I could: I ran. I sprinted from her so I wouldn’t hurt her or she wouldn’t see me cry with the exertion of containing the flames within. (There was more to the dream, but this is all I want to share at the moment, otherwise this letter would be five pages long.)
When I woke up, I realized the true target of my anger: God. Again. I’m not over you, Mom. And I’m really struggling, and I hate that I’m struggling because I feel like I shouldn’t be. Everyone tells me it’s totally okay to not be okay. But I don’t like not being okay.
I haven’t spent time with God like I should. Sure, I pray a lot. But I don’t read His word where I’d probably get my answers. Do I want to? A part of me wants to read His words, hear His voice. The other part doesn’t want to know what He has to say. What’s funny about that is the fact that it’s for fear that He would tell me that I need to move on and find joy and hold on to faith and strength. What if I don’t feel like dog-paddling to shore? What if I’m too tired and can only hold on to a rope to keep my head above the waves?
This conflict within me—how I feel (or don’t feel) inside is tearing me apart. I don’t want to do school work. I don’t want to read my Bible. I just want to sleep. I like talking to people, but even that gets tiring sometimes. I want to sleep, and yet at night, when sleep most commonly visits, it eludes me, leaving me prey to my emotions in the darkness until I cry myself to sleep in the wee hours of the morning.
I don’t know if I want to send this to you. It’s not like you’ll get it. Maybe I should stop writing altogether. You’re not on the receiving end of these letters.

Your daughter,
Hannah