Tell me, where has your softness gone?
I have very few memories, but those that I do, couldn’t have been sweeter, softer.
I understand. I understand that clearly you are mentally ill.
I understand that something had to have happened to you when you were young.
I understand having issues. I understand trauma. For I have it myself. But from you.
But what is not okay, is being heartless and evil and not admitting faults.
What is not okay is abusing your own children. The memories of being hit, dragged by my hair, put down, the way my sisters tell me what you’ve done. And the memories hit. The deja vu. For that was me, once. Nothing makes me sicker than knowing, knowing you are doing exactly to them what you did to me.
I haven’t missed you these months. I don’t miss you now. Nothing can change that. What I miss is something beyond you.
Every time I see you. Which is rare, in photographs, or briefly. But you have so deteriorated. You have turned to cigarettes and alcohol and your hair has been dyed black. You are desperately trying to literally become those around you.
You look sick. The sickness that you have has radiated to the outside in a way that I never foresaw possible. I thought it could be kept under wraps, kept quiet, I would’ve always kept quiet. I would’ve always tried to make you love me, make you proud of me. To make you be kind. For the image you portrayed to the outside world was not who you really were, but I wanted you to be that person.
I wanted so badly for you to wake up one day and realize how badly you had treated me. I remember you saying, “I forget how young you are.” In excuse to your abuse. I tried to make that a possible excuse, but no matter how old I was, no one should ever be treated that way.
I can’t stand seeing you, for one, because we haven’t spoken in how long, but because I know you are too far gone to hear me if I tried to speak. I know that whatever is left of you can’t even comprehend me and who I am.
And to be honest, I don’t want any of your energy to ever go to me. Not that it ever has or is, but I need you to try, to try and get help. To be better. Not for my sake. Not even for yours. But for the sake of my family. For the sake of not repeating a cycle.
Because the scars you left, they remain. The images, the flashbacks, they stay. I can’t ever erase you. Sometimes I convince myself I can. But I can’t. Not ever. I am of you. I am from you. That does not make me owe you anything, that does not make me love you, that does not make me credit you to anything, but it means your blood is in my veins. It means that everything you did to chew me up and spit me out stays within me.
“I know she’s your mother..”
I would repeatedly be told before someone said something awful but factual about you, and I would get upset, how could they still refer to you as my mother when you were nothing to me? No one really refers to you as my mother anymore. But the truth is that you are, you are, and the fact that you couldn’t be that for me in my life will be a burden, a feeling of rejection, a void that can’t be filled.
I say I don’t need you. And I mean it, I don’t, you were never anything good to me. Being without you has been the healthiest I’ve ever felt, the most confident I’ve ever felt.
But what I need. Is for the madness to end. No pain has hit me yet, I know it eventually will. I know I’ll one day have to face it. But it has hit those I care for. And I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t stand hearing your name. I can’t stand seeing their tears.
Months without me. And you haven’t once tried. Tried to talk to me, try to do anything. And it makes sense. I know you can’t even wrap your head around it. I know you’re so gone, I know you’ve never really been there to begin with.
But please. Try and surface enough to stop the blood pouring from everyone’s hearts, draining their life forces from them too soon.