Unspoken Words

“I love you” she says, expectantly. A knot forms in my stomach. I don’t (can’t?) say anything

back. I see the shadows of disappointment and sorrow slowly eclipse her face though she is

trying hard to appear casual and hopeful. For a second a wave of guilt floods over me but is

quickly washed away by a storm of anger. It’s her fault for saying it, for making me feel this

way; she’s trying to manipulate me. I roll my eyes, quickly turn my back to her, and leave the

room, her words hanging in the still air. The only sound I hear as I leave is a sad sigh. Or maybe

it’s a huff of judgment or annoyance. I don’t know because I don’t look back.

It’s been like this for a while and I don’t remember when it started. She’s done nothing wrong;

yet everything she does is wrong. Annoying. Embarrassing. Suffocating. They say this is normal.

A natural part of the teenage phase as I prepare to separate from my parents. But I can’t help

thinking that I’m taking this phase too far, punishing my parents for nonexistent crimes; my

friends aren’t this mean to their parents, and I have to admit my parents are a lot nicer than

some of my friends’ parents. In my bed at night I resolve to be nicer, but then I walk downstairs

and she says something innocent yet forced like, “Oh, don’t you look nice this morning, is that a

new outfit?” and I can hear the eggshells cracking underneath her feet. I resent that she is

being so inauthentically sweet to me these days, that she is afraid of my moods, as if I am a

bomb and not her daughter. And besides, she should know I have worn this outfit before.

At a Senior retreat last month my classmates and I were effectively brainwashed after 48 hours

with no phones, no watches, little sleep and LOTS of tearful over-sharing by regretful teenagers.

By the end of the weekend I was fantasizing about walking home, dropping my bags, and

saying, “Mom, I love you” and accepting her tearful hug. I could do it, I told myself, maybe if I

didn’t make eye contact it would be easier. Something about her anticipation and reaction

scared me. My whole drive home I practiced so I could get the perfect casual tone, not too

serious and definitely not emotional, just matter-of-fact like it’s not something I suddenly

stopped saying about two or three years ago. But when I opened the back door and heard her

exaggerated “Oh Hiiiiiii… how WAS it?” all my lovey-dovey good vibes from the weekend

evaporated. I felt the need to meet her over-optimism with negativity, because the truth was

somewhere in the neutral between. “It sucked” I muttered, and headed directly to my room, no

hug, no “L word”, no progress.

When my anger rolls away, I am faced with the guilt. Everything she does, says, and wears

annoys me to extreme levels yet if I am honest with myself I know I wouldn’t change anything

about her. Because to change her is to change the woman who raised me, who shaped me.

Maybe I don’t like myself and I blame her, I project all my shortcomings and imperfections and

awkwardness on her. My rudeness is more about me than it is about her. But even when I

admit this, I still cannot bring myself to tell her I love her or even imply that I can tolerate her

company. Maybe I will let her read this instead. We don’t need to talk about it. Not yet.