Title: Which Deeds Will I Forgive
Sometimes I wonder about it. I mean, which normal person wouldn't? Being missing for three months takes a big chunk out of a person's life. Three months. What might have happened if I had never come face to face with Duane Barry? Would the X-Files have been opened again? Would Mulder still be sitting in musty hotel rooms listening to porno conversations? And me. What would I have become? The only problem with thinking thoughts like this is that I tend to break down in tears, unable to stop for hours. So I don't. The things I think about, and I'm positive Mulder, Mom and the guys do, is what happened to me while I was gone. Why they let me come home. What would have happened if I hadn't come home. I guess I have answers to some of those questions, but I find myself wishing I didn't. Maybe to spare myself a little.
A lot of meaning in one little word. Some answers and more questions in a few little syllables. In all honesty, it doesn't surprise me. They like to answer questions with more questions, and they seem to be excelling at that. I know that frustrates Mulder to no end, and it seems to be anymore that what frustrates Mulder frustrates me. But I've known that for a long time.
A project to them. Nothing more than a large test mouse. Do they realize what they took from me? From countless others? Probably not. Men that do these types of things can't have hearts. Cancerman would have told me that, when I first met him. Maybe today too, I don't know. At least he took some sort of mercy on Mulder and myself, although some is not enough for either of us. But somebody finished that for him, didn't they?
You know something I find funny lately, is that despite all the things they did to me, taking me on a train ride for three months, leaving the people I love to grieve, giving me cancer, and erasing my memory, I could forgive them for it. At least after Emily. But she is the one thing I can not forgive, ever. How can you just take a woman, strip her of the one thing all women have as a gift, and make a child out that which was stripped?
I'm surprisingly not angry with Mulder over this. He didn't tell me, even though I surely would have been the queen of all POed people if I had found out. I'm surprised he told me about my ova when he discovered my condition. Mulder has changed, that's for sure. But it still brings me back to my original topic in this letter I write to myself.
Maybe all things are connected through her now. The little girl, who loved to color, and hated hospitals and needles. The one who missed her family. I can sympathize, but I wanted to tell her she was mine. I was her mommy.
That social worker has no idea, that's for sure. She has no idea of how it feels to find out you can't have children, and then be faced with your own three-year old just months later. How it feels to be told you may not be fit for motherhood at this time. I think she'd have been surprised at what I would have given up to have Emily. Everyone would have.
Mulder told me once he didn't see me as a mother. Maybe he was right. But maybe he was wrong, and I don't *get* a chance for him to see me as a mother.
It hurts, and I don't think anyone realizes how much it does. My little baby girl, who never knew why she was created or why her parents suddenly disappeared from her side. Or who I was, and longed to be.
I hate them. I hate them for what they did to me, and what they did to her.
I hate them. I cannot forgive this time. Never.