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I don't think I've ever really loved my mother.
Sometimes I think she's just convinced she loves me for the same reason I was. We were supposed to.
She was told be be successful, and a loving mother and wife. But… She failed at the first. No one says it, but that's why she decided to get married, suddenly, to a guy she just met, at twenty two, barely even done with pre med.
She needed to feel like she was worthy of the life she had. No matter how little it amounted to.
I don't know whether or not the stories of my grandparents are real. I just know that anything my mother could call hell and mean it has to be either paradise, or exactly what she called it.
I don't think I'd love my mother, if she weren't just that. She's not easy to even care about, let alone love.
But I still feel guilty for not meaning a single 'I love you.'
My dad used to say she has big emotions, before he gave up on fixing it too.
But I never understood as a kid, why her emotions were more important than mine. She claims that's not what she's saying, when she makes threats, or curses, or pokes and prods at my being in public so I'll look like the only one making a scene.
She can be anything that way.
She is an angel that way.
She is making me fall that way.
From my own pedestal I fall, the whole world I've built around me crumbles. The walls, have ears that's drums' are cracking, under the pressure of bridges that solemn ever wait for a song's permission to fall down..
I am doomed, inside my own body. No one should have to share their soul, but I have ripped pieces of mine to fix her's since the moment I realized helping others made me human.
Sometimes, I don't even think she's really a person anymore. Just a collection of bad memories to be shared, and horrified with no regard for stability.
People say life is like a Rollercoaster.
They forgot the seatbelts in mine.
My brother tells me to not fight back, he learned to turn off emotions at the drop of a hat. It's nothing to him, to not think, because thinking leads to remembering. And he wants to forget everything he can.
But I'm scared, of becoming like him.
My dad was like him. He would stand there, Blank, and unlucid, no nerves connecting.
I remember watching him, when I was little.
Not telling her was the only protection he ever gave.
I'm staring at the household door, at the entrance to the place that's haunted with my memories of doing anything to escape.
Running at seven.
Honor roll at ten.
Small crime at thirteen.
No one seems to care about crimes committed on my body, my soul, my brain. Just that I said a fact wrong when forced to relive it.
It's silent for a moment, no sound, for once no screaming.
Scott opens the door.
And my heart sinks down to my stomach.