Mother

Its been years since I’ve posted and yet, everything feels so familiar. The language of my posts, the feelings in my heart, the pounding in my head.

Today’s topic will be one that I’ve avoided for a long time. I used to be afraid of my friends or family finding this and knowing my darkest secrets and how I truly feel, but what the hell? Its not like anyone would believe the person who wrote these is me anyway. So I digress:

My mother.

Though there is a lot to say about her, i’m going to pick only a couple of stories to showcase her role in my life.

I remember being a child in my mother’s arms, perched on a hip, while she did laundry. I remember holding a towel for her while she opened a pantry. I remember thousands of ants crawling all over the towels in the cupboard. A nightmare. She dropped me.

I remember being a teen and having a fight with her. Furious as I always was, I tried to run away. Sobbing so intensely that I couldn’t see, I flopped down on my bed and missed the pillow. I remember blood pouring out of my nose and running right back to her to tell me what to do. I remember hating that I needed her.

I was older. I wanted to be free. I went to college. My parents got divorced. I remember how they blamed me. I was the reason their lives were terrible. I remember hating every person i’d ever known. I remember the blood when I tried to kill myself.

I ran away. I was broken. I remember needing new scenery. I went to the beach, to my aunts, where my parents wouldn’t be. I learned things about my past that I blocked out. I realized why I was better, better than my family. I am better than them. Because I learned how to lose toxicity. I cut everyone out. I became me. Alone.

I remember her trying to be my friend, to gossip, to seal what had been broken. It didn’t work. I broke myself into smaller pieces so she didn’t have any hope. I remember blocking her from my life and her clawing her way around. I remember wanting to kill myself again to get away from her.

I remember her getting married again. I didn’t want to go, but everyone told me I should. They were stupid. I hated it. I wanted to scream when they asked for objections. I clawed into my best friends arm to keep from vomiting. I remember her forcing me to take smily pictures. I remember realizing how much I hated her. And then I broke again.

I found a freedom. A light bulb switched on that told me I could be my own person. I started being honest and yelling and screaming at her. I remember being branded problematic. A pot stirrer. I was always the problem. And I wanted to kill myself.

And now, she’s here. Getting divorced again. Invading my personal space. Pretending to be grateful while selfishly demanding of us. I lock myself away. Pretending I care. But knowing that she could die and I wouldn’t shed a tear. The torment I have had at her hands can not be erased. And I am better than her. I have grown up into a caring, smart, compassionate woman in spite of her. I am better than her because I can see clearly while she is blinded by material objects and her own non-existant gravitational pull. The center of her universe that she made up. The reason no one will ever work out. Because she doesn’t know how to give, only take.