No mommy, please don't go, please don't leave me all by myself. I am only eight years old, how am I going to get through my life without the person who gave me life in the first place. Why are you just laying there? Why are you not breathing? What are those needles beside you? Why do I hear sirens? Why is no one doing anything? WHY?
Eight days later you were pronounced dead and that was the last time I saw you, the last image in my head was you laying there lifeless, breathless and cold.
Dear Mommy,
I thought writing this would help me with your loss, but it hasn't gotten any easier. As a matter of fact, I am crying as the thoughts come to my head. Every key stroke is met with a tear. Here, on my computer sits a tear. Twenty-one years later and I still think of you daily and cry weekly. Will it ever get any easier? I just wanted to write you a letter and tell you how much I miss you but those feeling of missing you are being met with anger. It hurts me to my core to think that I will be getting married in a month and a half and you will not be there. It hurts me to think that the man I am marrying will one day be the father of a child that you will never meet. It hurts me that I am upset with you. It hurts me that I sometimes question GOD's decision to take you. It hurts me to think that you had to be high in order to celebrate Keith's birthday. It hurts me that you didn't think of us while you were getting high. It hurts me to think that the things that I am saying would hurt you.
I just don't understand. Was life not worth more? Were we not more important than that feeling only cocaine could give you? Was the high a better feeling than seeing your children one more day? Was it worth leaving this earth when we still had so many unanswered questions? I can't help asking you these things mommy because I am still hurt, I still cry and I still don't understand. Are you happy? Are you happy that I have fears of becoming a mom? Fears of leaving my child in the same f*cked up mind state that you left me. Fears that my child will too be angry with me when I have to meet GOD. Fears that maybe my child will experiment with the little white devil, make it their best friend and too lay lifeless on a floor. Fears that every time I write you, I will be angry.
Until next time,
Your angry and confused daughter
Eight days later you were pronounced dead and that was the last time I saw you, the last image in my head was you laying there lifeless, breathless and cold.
Dear Mommy,
I thought writing this would help me with your loss, but it hasn't gotten any easier. As a matter of fact, I am crying as the thoughts come to my head. Every key stroke is met with a tear. Here, on my computer sits a tear. Twenty-one years later and I still think of you daily and cry weekly. Will it ever get any easier? I just wanted to write you a letter and tell you how much I miss you but those feeling of missing you are being met with anger. It hurts me to my core to think that I will be getting married in a month and a half and you will not be there. It hurts me to think that the man I am marrying will one day be the father of a child that you will never meet. It hurts me that I am upset with you. It hurts me that I sometimes question GOD's decision to take you. It hurts me to think that you had to be high in order to celebrate Keith's birthday. It hurts me that you didn't think of us while you were getting high. It hurts me to think that the things that I am saying would hurt you.
I just don't understand. Was life not worth more? Were we not more important than that feeling only cocaine could give you? Was the high a better feeling than seeing your children one more day? Was it worth leaving this earth when we still had so many unanswered questions? I can't help asking you these things mommy because I am still hurt, I still cry and I still don't understand. Are you happy? Are you happy that I have fears of becoming a mom? Fears of leaving my child in the same f*cked up mind state that you left me. Fears that my child will too be angry with me when I have to meet GOD. Fears that maybe my child will experiment with the little white devil, make it their best friend and too lay lifeless on a floor. Fears that every time I write you, I will be angry.
Until next time,
Your angry and confused daughter
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