Things I Wish My Mother Had Taught Me

I was around six years old when I started cooking for myself. I don’t remember the last time my mom cooked for me besides boxed macaroni and cheese.

My mother was making boxed macaroni and cheese in the kitchen while my sister and I were explaining to her how our adopted uncle had just molested us. I was four and a half years old.

It would have been nice to learn how to cook from my mother. However, after my adopted uncle was sentenced to prison for creating child pornography involving us, my mother moved my sister and me to another state, and she fell into a deep depression. She turned to alcohol to numb her pain. Her way of coping with that pain caused me suffering that would last a lifetime, leading to decades of therapy and anxiety medication.

I wish my mother had taught me to stay strong after we were sexually abused. Instead, she felt pain. She felt anger. Sometimes I don’t think she thought of me at all.