Mother

They're suppose to be the people who love you unconditionally. The ones who are there for you, who support you, who make you feel safe and protected because it is what instinct tells them to do.

I am envious of people who have that.

My mother is a heinous bitch. It is not momentary teen angst, or an outcry from discipline, but the pure and simple truth.

Most mothers have rough times with there teenage daughters, cracking down on them when they misbehave, arguing over moral differences, but ultimately allowing them to grow and flourish and live there separate lives. May I just say that while my views on sex and drugs and other various moral principles may vary from those of my mother, I have never once been out of line, in fact I'm so far from crossing the line that I'm rarely in view of it's existence.

I think around the time I turned 16 my mother realized something, she realized that someday very soon I was going to leave her; she realized that the physical abuse she had caused me as a young child, and the verbal abuse that has maintained my entire life meant that I may never come back. (After 16 years, it hit her that gee, maybe it's not a good idea to hassle your daughter about what a stupid fat ugly bitch she is.) When she finally came around and decided she wanted me to love her, she realized that the day that I was twelve years old and she walked into my room, cold and emotionless and told me "You know, it's not that I hate you, it's just that I don't love you. I never wanted you to begin with and I could never love something like you;you just irritate me too much," was the day she blew her last chance with me.

We can pretend it's okay. That's what she wants to do. She wants to think that by fixing my lunch everyday suddenly the black eye she gave me when I was nine and didn't understand my math homework is canceled out. That by using the excuse of "going through a hard time" it's acceptable to mask her hate for herself as hate for me. But it is not okay. It will never be accepted or forgiven.

Someday I might love her. Distance makes it easier to deal with her vapid, shallow, spiteful nature. My mother is not an evil woman after all, despite the message my memories and perception may convey; there's simply too much bad blood between us-we survived my dad together and it ruined us, we blame each other for it. The woman is in fact strong and beautiful and beholds one of the strongest moral compasses I have yet to encounter. But she suffocates me. She doesn't understand me and she never will. She doesn't understand the fact that when you are the sole adult in a household as a child, taking care of your mother in recovery from varies surgeries, helping her face her various hardships, while trying to compensate as a parental figure for your brothers while your father is out god knows where doing god knows what/who, you stop being a child. I may still be somewhat naive to the more scandalous ways of the world, but I have not been a child in a very long time and I do not appreciated being treated as one. I can clean my own room, and take care of myself, and should be trusted to not only be mature enough to do so, but to have a bit of freedom now and then.

Even if it is only my spirit in danger, I need to get away from this place because I realize more and more that it is killing me softly.