Message in a Bottle

by E. Marmer
posted Sep 8, 2017

Emma Hanquist, Artisit

My daughter carries a heavy load of emotional scars. They come in part, of course, from all the regular wounds that all sensitive people endure, whether inflicted by others, or by one’s own hand, or received upon the usual stumbles and falls that plague all such sensitive souls during childhood, adolescence and early adulthood. But in addition, some of my daughter’s scars come from uniquely devastating experiences. And some of them come from her unfortunate luck of being born with overactive or underactive brain chemicals, giving her a distorting fun house mirror to work with, and making navigation through the ordinary pitfalls of life and complications of connecting with others all the more treacherous.

From “Wink Space” by Masakazu Shirane and Saya Miyazaki

My dear beautiful daughter has been working for her entire life to shatter that mirror, or at least to recognize its distortions and learn to navigate despite them.

I know that many of her scars came from wounds I inflicted as well, unintentional as they were. Time has given me sight: I can see where I said and did the wrong thing, got drawn into an unhealthy pattern, came up short, missed the mark and even communicated judgment and disapproval. I could take refuge behind that well worn excuse, true as it may be, that all mothers are destined to screw up to varying degrees (because despite the most ardent wishes of their children and themselves, they are indeed flawed, bumbling human creatures like everyone else), but I won’t. I regret all the wounds I inflicted on my daughter. I wish I could take them all back. I can’t, obviously, but I can do one thing at least. I can let her know that never once, in all our years together, regardless of whatever sparring, frustrations, heartaches, mistreatment and misunderstandings we encountered or caused relating to each other, regardless of whatever sorrow I conveyed to her about her struggles and my inability or, in some cases, incompetence to make them go away, that never once was it a sorrow that she was, is, my daughter. From the moment I fell in love with her, looking down at her in my arms, I have rejoiced in being the one lucky enough to get her and have never stopped. When I fretted over how she was handling or not handling a situation, or felt the sting from one of our unhappy exchanges, I was also, always, exalting in how goddamned unique, and irreplaceable she is, how spirited and emotionally complex, how tender-hearted, how brilliantly glowing, how much a gift I didn’t deserve, for who could deserve such a prize as my Sophie. Through it all, and even now at 23, she remains as adored, as treasured, as zealously and jealously held, as much a wonder and a miracle as she was in my arms all those years ago. I wish she could feel exactly what is in my heart, my darling daughter.

E. Marmer | Free to Navel Gaze

If she could she’d know what I felt when she fit like a small football against my chest, for that feeling has never left.

I don’t expect that my saying all this will magically make some small portion of her scars disappear, though of course I pray every day for her happiness, and it’s no secret from either of us that I wish I did indeed have the bottle of magic balm, the potion to drip into her scars and free her heart from the past, even the many parts of her past that do not relate to me. (I carry that irrational wish despite how she well she has been making some of her scars disappear on her own, with no help from me – she has been achieving so much self-healing, that strong and capable woman.) But if it does anything, I hope this message in a bottle, poor substitute for any magic balm in a bottle though it may be, makes her feel, know, believe, accept that she has made my life meaningful in ways I could never have dreamed of, and that knowing her and being her mother has been one of the greatest joys I have been blessed to receive.