Why is it that whenever I tell you how depressed I feel, your response is, “You didn’t feel that way when you were younger.”? You’re right, I didn’t. I didn’t know that you had bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. I didn’t have to hear you crying yourself to sleep, repeatedly saying the name of my sister’s murdered father. I didn’t have to see you speaking in tongues to imaginary people as we drove down the street. I didn’t have to fight with you, constantly being told that I’m making things up when I mention your mental illnesses that you are in denial about. I didn’t have to spend years being worried that I might have bipolar disorder and/or schizophrenia, as well. I didn’t have to testify in a court of law about how unsuitable of a mother you are. I didn’t have to have my sister, my current age at the time and a whole life ahead of her, become my legal guardian. I didn’t know that my father was a raging alcoholic that physically and emotionally abused you, and possibly myself. I didn’t find out until 9 years after the fact that my father overdosed on alcohol and coke and he died. I didn’t realize that I was predispositioned to be addicted to things. I didn’t have to spend almost 20 years hating the size of my body, the product of constant comfort eating. I didn’t have to deal with terrible criticism, mostly from you, when I finally decided that my body is fine and beautful just the way it is. I didn’t have to be so concerned for the state of women’s rights, especially after seeing and knowing how all the women in my family have been abused by the men in their lives. I didn’t have to feel like a racial pariah because being raised socially white made it so that no one taught me how to be black. I didn’t have to spend the last 4 years being coerced into going to school and constantly being on the brink of failure because of my own screwed up head, when I should have been encouraged to just take a break and get help. I didn’t develop anxiety and depression because of all of the crazy crap that I’ve been through in life, the majority of which is ultimately your fault. No, I didn’t feel this way when I was younger. It’s a huge slap in the face when you illegitimize my current mental state based on a time in my life before anything even all that bad, or that I realized was bad, happened to me. When I say I’m depressed, I’m not asking for your excuses or even pity. I am just asking to be allowed to not be happy. I just want you to give me your motherly love, that’s all, but that seems to be too much for you. I am extremely over it. Cordially, Your Daughter P.S. You aren’t fat, nor have you ever been fat. Stop projecting your hateful body ideals on me. I’m mad sexy, jiggle and all.