September 29, 2015|
I moved in with my mom again because my roommate made me feel unsafe, and every day felt like something might go wrong, a fight might break out, things would be broken. I left so suddenly and desperately.
Because living in this area is so expensive. I had no where to go.
My mother is a manipulator, a liar, a monster. And she always seemed nice when I was living in the other place. It seemed like our relationship could be salvaged. Like maybe one day I could stop being afraid to be human to her.
Lately she has been cold. And I am always tensed up. She closes doors, coldly. She has nothing nice to say. Her responses are engineered to nudge me into a crisis, a frustrated angry place, so ill blow up, and I can be the monster.
I felt guilty before, with her. I didn't understand why I couldn't be nicer to her, why I couldn't tell her I loved her, why I couldn't be good.
She made me bad.
I can see it now.
When I go to talk to her, and she carries her anger around like thick black smoke. In her trail, I am soot. I am nothing but this. I don’t belong anywhere, because I am always in the trail of her filth. I am always her filth. And I am not good enough to be close to anyone.
I feel like an unwanted piece of furniture being passed between places. Where else to go, but into oblivion.
I see now how my anxiety over the next blow up from my roommates is an anxiety that was nurtured by my mother. That I felt constantly tense among the roommates not just because of their behavior, but because my mother engineered me to feel like a child, cowering in corners, hiding in shadows, until I begin to resemble a monster, in order to hide from them. I became a neglectful, angry, volatile, aggressive, discontent creature. I was engineered to be in relationships that make me feel like nothing. Now I am in relationships that are too fleeting to be even flings. I am comforted by a lack of content. But I feel that something is lacking. No amount of inspirational messages can undo her work.
And now I see myself in the mirror, I hate my body. And living with my mother seems like all I deserve. The two-faced mother, whose love I am so eager for, and whose love I fear because of the uncertainty from her ever-churning faces. The fear of her death, the fear of never finding peace because I always will believe it is my fault. Because she’s my mother. And mothers don’t do wrong things. Mothers are not monsters. It must be me.