Dear Kids,

You’re fucked.  Both of you.  Seriously.  I’d really like to know what you’re little broken brains are thinking, if that’s what they are even doing. Are you able to imagine what life will be like for you in five minutes after this meal is over and you don’t have means or a plan for getting the next?  You have no idea how hard it is out there just to live, pay rent, buy food, put gas in the car (if you’re lucky enough to have a car).  The way I want to help you is to teach you how to work hard, but that’s backfired and you hate me.

I know, I’m mostly to blame for most all your issues, and I accept that with little to no argument otherwise.  I’ve been an ass.  A mean awful mother at times.  I imagine this is some kind of revenge, and although you have no idea, it’s about the worst kind.  Ouch.  When you are both falling flat on your face it’s hard to look in the mirror.  Though you forget, I also took care of you, fed you, clothed you, read to you and loved you in the best way I could and knew how.

Now I’ve read books, taken classes, gotten degrees and work in the field of families for Christ’s sake, but none of that changes history.  None of that can change my history.  We are all right where we are.  Past and present.  Fortunately our future is not yet determined.  Fortunately for you.  I’m going to attempt to regroup somehow, work on how to lovingly detach and give detached love.  Right now that looks like me spewing anger and impossible questions your way, but I’ll work on it.  That’s all I can do.

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