From the Estate of a Deceased Young Man, who hasn't rushed to the funeral of his paternal grandmother

Dear mother!

I write this letter to you without accusing you. I am writing this letter so that you understand what is happening to me. This letter is in part not addressed to you but to the woman who you had been years ago. Every single word, I mean seriously and I would be sorry if you rejected it, just because it is not usual in our family, to call a spade a spade, or talk about ones feelings.

I was three years old. At this age, I found myself and the understood how the world worked. Children and fools speak the truth. Likewise, I intuitively captured the mood of the people who surrounded me. I loved you very much and then I wanted to be loved by you too. I felt that you were constantly irritated and rejected me. You might not accept me at the time as I was, but you were rebellious. You felt that I took up your time. When I watched on the other hand, how you treated Marcel and Armande, I could not find such petulance. Lord only knows just why you couldn't stand me while I was in this important phase.

The constant rejection did hurt me. I was not responsible for being on the worl? One morning I worked up my courage and asked you whether you loved me. You were obviously irritated and wanted to hear nothing of it. You often don't want to hear unpleasant things. For me the issue was very important - if not essential for survival. Because such a small worm needs to feel loved, or he dies. I tried so desperately to reveal my emotional wound not but you got angry, turned away and said, "You fancy." When you had left the room, I was unable to move. About one hour, I stood on the spot and I could not budge. That you treted me like this and I were fancying the thought came to my mind that I were an evil person, who accused you of bad feelings, you never had.

All these negative feelings had arisen from me if I believed you. However, I wanted to be lovable. I couldn't cope with this contradiction. On the same day I got a fever and was sick. When the disease passed, I began to do things for what you would well like me. I gave up my child's world, which was unbearable without love, in favour of an illusory world, where I tried to be the child you could love. At that time, I lost myself. But to be left alone in my misery had become unerasable in the depths of my injured soul.

Then there was my brother Armande, who lied out of fear. You scared him and because he had no trust to get his way against you he lied. You have made so anxious that he still lies now that he is thirty years of age.

Brother Armande had a favorite game when I was small. He demonstrated to me that he better access to you, as I do. We children all around you were fighting for your love. He enjoyed it to show me how powerless I was against him.

When I was five years old, Mrs. Johnson complained that she lacked a bicycle bulb. You came to our living room and asked who would have taken the bulb - price 15 cents . Armande said that I was the offender. I said, "I was not." The liar Armande revenged again that he the older one had to bear more responsibility than the smallest. You believed Armande and not me not because I was not credible for you.


I do not know how long you flailed me with a carpet beater (Incidentally, this is a message of love?) Humiliated I confessed, hurted in my soul what I had not done. My credibility was gone. I was nothing other than a clown, because you had made me a clown and you gave me an experience of absolute powerlessness. But without love, a child does not live, and so I forgot.

You wanted to hear no criticism at the time, because you were afraid of negative things. So you used the inability of the father to distract from you. He was the bogeyman because he was disrespectful, looking blank to us children and was a great egoist.

And Armande had demonstrated to me that he was believed instead of me. He made me suffer, and nobody believed me.


But all that is forgotten and forgiven. As now the grandmother died, you demanded I should come to the funeral and once again it was not going to matter what I felt. For you only one thing counts, that everyone behaves like he is expected to. You did it your whole life long. But for me it is important what I feel, and I am no longer a young child, which takes the responsibility for all it is blamed. You can not accept, that I am a human being with feelings and emotions of my own. Instead, you talk of my father. My father, during his life did nothing else, than to muck himself about his children, elevating himself in his immaculate adult sky.


He had never regard for my feelings and if I needed him, he was not there. As a father, he has failed. His mother, he has neglected, and by his strange behaviour - he sold her house behind her back while she was in the hospital - he robbed her of a few years of her life. I owe him nothing.

As you can see, there is no reason to argue, let' s get along with each other.