Most people struggle to face the truth. They keep going back, trying to make it better, trying to make their parents understand. They go into therapy and try to work on themselves. I went to therapy, too. But all it did was confirm what I already knew.
See, I already hated you. I don’t know how young I was when I stopped loving you. Eight or nine, probably, one of those ugly ages when you’re no longer a cute little kid but you’re not an attractive young woman yet, either. When only your mother loves you.
There must have been a day. An event. Probably one of those mad screaming rants you would go on, because I’d been scratching my nose, or I’d looked at you funny, or you’d asked me a question and my answer hadn’t quite hit that tone of cheery obedience that you expected. I spent so much time trying to figure out what set you off, but the truth is it was mostly nothing to do with me. I was a convenient punchbag. Maybe someone had been nasty to you at work, or accused you of skipping in front of them in the bus queue. And then you’d come in and wait for me to do something you could plausibly get angry about and suddenly I’d be flying across the room, your hand at my shoulder, your spittle-flecked face white with rage, inches from my face. You awful, awful person.
There was no name for it, not when I grew up. The insane rages followed by days of silent treatment. The total control over what I wore, who I saw, where I went. And the discouragement of learning any life skills or making any sort of move towards independence. It was too weird for people to understand. We lived on an estate where drug addicts let their small kids roam the streets at all hours, where there were houses you could go into and find dog shit on the floor and no food in the fridge. I was fed and clothed and never got into any trouble. Abuse like yours didn’t register. But it was still abuse.
I kept up the relationship with you after I moved out and while my dad was still alive, so that I could see him. I knew if I broke with you, precisely what sort of hell you’d put him through for ever coming to meet me alone. He made plans to leave you, did you know? He wanted to take me with him, but was afraid he wouldn’t get custody. He only told me after I’d left home.
Once he died, I told myself I was staying in contact to save myself from feeling guilty when you were dead. After all, you were my mother. But sometimes I’d hear about someone estranged from their family, and I’d feel jealous. I was no good to you anyway. You needed to keep up the appearance of a loving mother, so you had to see me now and again. But other than that I was no fun any more, because I’d learned how not to react to you. You couldn’t hurt me. It frustrated you, and after a day or two with us you would want to go home.
You overplayed your hand in the end. There was a level of grief I was prepared to put up with, but then you started on my child, and that was it. I played the part, though, and behaved like the perfect host through the rest of your visit. I even kissed you goodbye at the airport. But as I watched you walk to the gate, I swore the next time I would see you was in your coffin. And I felt nothing but relief.
Anonymous
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