Your Mom

Dear Biscuit,

You died when I was 15. The house was quiet when I came back home from camp that summer. I never understood how deeply integrated to the house you were, you took up more space than the tv or Mom’s yelling. Your presence was more foundational than the house’s beams and walls. You were somehow the definition of our family. At the time I wasn’t sympathetic to you, you were shitting uncontrollably, you became blind, and your hips barely functioned. In my young mind you’ve become a chore. Now I am grateful for your company and apologetic for the long life you lived without any reward. You once helped divide the attention between our parents, helped them receive unadulterated love and loyalty, something completely unavailable to give as a human child.

I never understood you until you left, when I quickly became expected to act like you. Did you know your worth? Did you feel the same pressure I did? I consistently fell short of the pedestal you built. I was jealous of your ability to do everything right without the weight of stress slowing down your happiness. I admired you most when we were both 4. Do you remember when I put on my pink poodle onesie and followed you around on all fours? I wanted the adoration and love you received. I mimicked you constantly just to be perceived in the same way as you, to rid myself of any responsibility being their daughter would have on my innocence.

I grew out of the onesie within a couple years. It digged in my crotch, rubbed against my armpits, and my ankles were visible from my growing legs. When you left, the onesie sat folded in a box in the basement and yet I was expected to put it back on. Follow blindly, speak when spoken to, no thoughts, no questions. I got the brunt of all your expectations shot into me. I was suddenly the pet, something and not someone. An animal to maneuver and do as they please, a presentation for friends and neighbors to represent our family’s structured excellence. You were given grace being a dog and yet I still can’t imagine how little grace was given to you if you received even an ounce of the obligation I did. If you didn’t have to, would you lay by Dad’s feet under his desk? If you had any sort of choice, would you have stayed? Was your life fulfilling? Was your joy built out of love or from necessity?

I don’t remember how much he beat you; I know that despite my infant memory my heart remembers your howled screams. When he hit me, your existence was my comfort. Your coarse fur was soothing against my small hands, your disinterest alleviating from the attention I did receive. We were two different beings who received the same abuse, I was treated like a dog and you were treated like you knew better. You would think the trauma would bring us closer, but neither of us even acknowledged each other passing in the hallway.

I wanted to love you more than I did. I wanted to relate to you about our trauma. Connect, subconsciously discuss without words. I grotesquely craved affection, but you seemed to as well. You were always with him, following him into every room, ignoring everyone else. I didn’t understand and it made me resent your unbridled obedience. I couldn’t comprehend your seeming forgetfulness of the past was already stored in your body as law, that your robotic nature wasn’t natural. Who would you be if it wasn’t beaten out of you? Did you ever feel yourself? I tried to be as subservient as you, to be whatever he wanted me to mold into. It was never enough. I could always be better. I could’ve been more like you, at peace within the circumstances handed to me, moving forward without resentment or feeling, but every time he stepped into the same room as me I froze. All I could ever think about is the harm he’s caused and could do to me. Did you think that way to? Were you always with him submitting, for preventative measures or protective? Was there somewhere in your instincts telling you to use your compliant role as a way to protect us?

I never really thought you would get old, despite my expectance of your nearing death, the process up until that point is what introduced my defiance. They never took you to a vet for anything which caused you to grow old painfully. I was helping you up and down the stairs, checking if you were breathing when you were sleeping, petting your tumors with the same soft strokes I did like when we were young. Me and you dealt with our unlucky lives separately from one another. Seeing each other unharmed gave us confidence, clarity, a sense of calmness and safety. The dynamic was now changed, I was confused how to feel comfortable in the house without you. I for some reason blamed this on you. I’m sorry for it. I didn’t know if I would ever feel secure in my surroundings again. I was scared to be without you and scared for what my future could look like in turn. We had the same life and you left it neglected by the same parents you served your existence for. Did you ever feel betrayed? Did you regret? Did you desire? Was there anything you felt other than pain?

When you passed I hope you felt the same feeling we had for one another when we would catch each other’s eyes from across the room: peace from the acknowledgment of our shared experiences, an awareness that you weren’t alone, that you deserved more. I wish you had a better life, a family who loved you for you and allowed your presence in its entirety. I’m sorry I never got to know you. I’m sorry for your suffering. I never forgot the abuse you went through and never will. Bitterness and resentment remain seated in the front of my mind because of your mistreatment, the life you never knew, the love you’ve never fully received.

I don’t have any pictures of you and my mental image of you is distorting. I don’t want to forget what you look like. You were the older sibling I never had. You helped me grow up more than anyone else. The one that ignores you, yet is always beside you. I miss looking into your eyes and feeling understood and safe. That our hardship was melted into one. My misplaced emotions took over my actions in our relationship, I never allowed myself to feel what was necessary while you were alive. I just pushed through any emotion until they were gone. My mangled perception of my world was limited to our parents’ controlled vision. I listened, I followed, I behaved. At the time, you had knowledge about our environment that I just wouldn’t comprehend yet, you knew the whys behind what you did no matter their simplicity. You saved me from more abuse than I could’ve gotten if you hadn’t been the dog that you were. You took care of everyone in a way that forced us together as a family, despite how broken, you made everything ok. I couldn’t keep up with the responsibility after you were gone. Nobody could.

I tried to force myself to cry after you were gone, I never did. I guess I was more excited about you receiving some long needed rest. Thank you for staying by me for as long as you did. Thank you for the life you have given despite the life you received. I miss you. I hope you are enjoying being yourself.

Exodus 7:20