A letter to my mother.

Mom,

I love you a lot. You and I are really close, closer than me & Dad, which is why I always call you when I don't feel good, or I feel stressed out, or I'm just generally unhappy. Well, yesterday I called you in tears because my stomach was killing me, so much so that I was doubled over at work, grabbing anything I could when waves of pain hit. Then I figured it out: I probably have a damn stomach ulcer. Why do I have a stomach ulcer? Because I have stressed myself to death over stupid, pointless things. Or maybe it's my excessive use of ibuprofen to help quell the intense tension headaches I get because, once again, I'm so stressed all the time. So, I love you but please do not tell me I am bringing it on myself and I need to exercise or do yoga more or I need to start journaling my thoughts. I will tell you exactly what I need.

Drugs.

Yea, I said it. Legal, doctor prescribed ones of course. I know you don't believe in prescription medication for mental health. That's why you didn't put your son on Adderall when we found out he had some form of ADHD when he was young, and then he struggled through school for tenyears. But seriously, I am begging you to not judge me when I say I'm going to go get put on something for anxiety.

Now, I know I'm a grown woman now, and I know I can put myself on medication if I want. I understand you don't want a zombie for a daughter. However, honestly if I'm not put on something to stop my mind from racing, I am going to start self-medicating more so than I already have.

Guess I should probably inform you about my newfound relationship with a little lady named Mary Jane because guess what? I don't have to think about anything when I'm fucked up, not how I'm going to pay my rent and bills, not if my hours are going to be cut at work again, not how my incarcerated boyfriend is doing, not if I'm going to get into grad school, and not if the guy at work is going to grab my shoulders in a creepy way or not today. Lately, I really don't want to be thinking.

So, Mom, as much as I love you, I really think I am not going to respect your wishes this time. I hope you understand one day that it might have saved my sanity. I'm only 22 years old. I don't need to be having stress headaches and stomach ulcers and all sorts of various ailments brought on my stress. As soon as I get back from Oxford this weekend, I'm making an appointment with the psychiatrist, and that's that.

Love,
Your Daughter