By Her View From Home 
Little me, it was not your fault. You were not a bad child. You did not need fixing. You did not deserve the beatings. You did not do anything to warrant the treatment you received from the one you just wanted to love you so badly. There was nothing wrong with you.
You were correct in feeling confused. You did not have to feel guilty about your wondering. The wondering why your mother treated you so harshly. The wondering if she loved you at all. The wondering what about you was so wrong, so bad, that even your own mother didn’t love you.
You didn’t have to feel guilty about your confusion about your mother’s love. The questions in your head that asked why she treated you so coldly, so dismissive and so painfully, yet she seemed capable of love when other people were around.
When other people could see, you were dressed up in pretty dresses with petticoats and lace socks with braids and ribbons in your hair. When others were around, she spoke of you so differently than she treated you. When others were around, she would have you at the center of attention and make you recite a poem you mastered in school. She would have you show a picture that you drew in your room. She would buy you dolls and doll accessories and pretend to be the doll’s grandma. She would look like a mother who was proud of you. A mother who loved you.
But when company left, and the doors closed, that love went away with them. And you knew it was time to retreat to your room. The smallest room in the house even though there were two other rooms available. Better not to be seen or heard now.
You had toys. Plenty of toys. You once counted your dolls, 110! What other kid was that lucky? To have 110 dolls? You were. Never mind the fact that they were all stored in big bags in the attic, among mousetraps with blocks of cheese on them. An impossible feat to get them. The toy store knew you by name. You lucky little girl, every month you would receive a new doll!
And when you inevitably made your mom angry, she would take the doll you were currently playing with, the one that was allowed to be taken out of the attic, and she would kick it down the stairs. She would throw it to the wall. She would take it away. You were not being dramatic because it hurt you. Yes, it was just a doll, but you had every right to cry when she did that.
Her words cut deeper than a knife, the “stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about!” You had every right to be scared. You were not being dramatic. When you were fighting back tears as the wooden spoon seared across your bum and back, you had every right to feel sad, afraid, and yes, angry! She had no right to hurt you that way. She was wrong.
As you got a little bit older and realized that nothing you did, nothing you tried, and nothing you said changed how she treated you, you didn’t do anything wrong when you finally gave up trying.
When she sat with people and told them you turned into “a monster,” while you were in the same room at that kitchen table, the hurt and betrayal you felt were warranted. You didn’t have to feel guilty about your feelings.
When you were deemed a rebellious teenager, look back. You didn’t run away from home. You made perfect grades in school. You did all your chores as well as those of your brother. You took care of the housework and the ever-growing number of pets. You didn’t talk back. You didn’t drink or smoke.
Tell me, why did you believe her lies? Why did you start viewing yourself as a rebellious, moody teenager who was a monster? Why did you start to hate yourself? Blame yourself for her hatred?
Little me, it was never your fault. She failed you. Your father failed to protect you. The adults are at fault. Not you.
Now, set that heavy burden down. No longer allow its weight to crush you. The wings you never knew to develop? Nurse them now. It’s not too late to heal. It’s time for you to know: It wasn’t your fault.
by Connie Cumming 
by Jennifer Vail 
