My Mother

I hated my mother. I envied what she attended to. When she went to work late at night I would cry for her attention, my sisters 6 and 7 years older than me, holding my infant self as I reached out.

I remember going to the big house after it stopped being renovated. There was a large circle bed standing against the wall. I remember it as if it were made of white silk, and all my siblings and my mother were lying together to sleep, curled amongst each other. In reality I saw it as dusty and with spider webs, a forgotten memory from my earliest collection.

I remember school too, everybody keeping their distance as if I was different, as if I smelled funny or was too obnoxious, and I'm sure I was. Mom never could pick me up from school when I had a fever and she never would come to SAC meetings (for teachers and interested parents). I took it personally. I knew she was at work, but I hated her.

When I was abused for the first time, and my sisters knew, I told them. I held it from my mom. I held it as it she didn't deserve to hear it. I never told her for years, and I was always angry at her for what she didn't do. I blamed her for having been hurt by these boys my age. They convinced me to be naked and one at a time mounded me. There wasn't anything there to be touched, but it was enough for me to feel disgusted, and my mom wasn't there to help me, so I hated her.

She's old school, she's introverted, what she says is fluff and meaningless. She keeps the truth, she's in denial of her own confusion. She thinks she know's what's going on and speaks positively as if EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE OK, but it never was, and I don't being told 'everything is going to be ok' because of it.

Things were never OK. I grew up with my friends, my delinquent peers that taught me what sex was and danced with me at night. Through them my feelings got confused in everything that was wrong. I turned to them because my mother wouldn't answer my questions to life, about sex, about money, about love. She wasn't there for me, so I had surrogate parents: my friends.

I don't want to hate her, I just want her attention.

She spent it all up on my sisters, when I was born there was none left. My mother was the 'other woman', so he was never my married father, just my 'biological' dad. He wasn't there for me, but I don't blame him because he had the abortion money ready.

He's crazy like me anyway. I don't want anything to do with that.

I only blame my mother. She insisted on having me born, therefore it is her fault that I was born, and her fault that I have lived a painful life. It is her fault that I was an outcast, and her fault that I was abused. It was her fault when I came home late, or not at all, and her fault when I was raped for the second time. It was all her fault because she never sat down and talked with me, she only talked to me. She wasn't saying anything anyway, so it's as if we never talked.

To this day I don't get her attention.

I haven't yet accepted my victimization because I feel like there was a mistake. It wasn't my mistake, it was just my face. I feel a part from it. I feel broken from my self.

I met a man just like my mother. I love him more than he knows of the word. He is quiet, introverted, full of fluff, and a workaholic too. He has no time for me and doesn't want to. I want nothing more in the world than to have him hold me and cherish me like a daughter, like my mother's child. I want to be told that I'm special and that I'm important and that I was saved from abortion not because he's a humanitarian and a rescuer by nature, but because I am meant for this world.

Everything else tells me I'm not, because I don't understand how the world works, or why, or how, and my mother was never there to tell me.