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Mother
You’ve ruined my life enough, haven’t you, mother? Your screams of help were nothing but for the attention you would get from the police, and your suicide attempts were just to give you something to do.
You say you love me, but I can’t believe you, what would that be? False hope for the plagued high school girl? I think not. All my friends love you, because you are the best thing since bread and butter, and just the sound of your voice could make them smile.
They have no idea about the things you’ve done to my father and the things he’s done to you. I know, you aren’t the only one to accuse here but it sure seems like it doesn’t it? They haven’t heard your voice go rough, like sandpaper, and they haven’t heard your precarious yelling. Your toady; a people pleaser. You’d say anything just so people would like you, you would lie about your life saying that you had never done anything wrong, never been to jail. Like none of those nights where you would cling on to me bed and tell me how you loved me and that you would never let me go.
I would listen to you, as you complained about your supposed hard life. I believe it was hard, but I wasn’t the one who made you take those pain killers. I wasn’t the one who made you spend that money, I wasn’t the one who told you to kill yourself.
And you say you hope it’s your fault, because what a problem that would be, if I was mad at you, if you screwed up my life so much that it’s been turned inside out. I was young when all this happened and I’m a bit baffled about how much you tricked me.
“Mommy, what are those?” I would ask, looking at the white pills with, not curiosity, but worry.
“These are uhh...” You would stumble over your words trying to think of an excuse I suppose, “These are things that will keep me living, they don’t hurt me, they make everything better....” You would say the last part under your breath. And you know what, I believed you. I thought those would help your broken knee from two years ago, I thought those were something that were magic, from the doctor who so innocently gave them to you.
My father used to yell at you, telling you that you were ruining out childhood (which you did) and you would fight back, “Why is it only that bad things that someone remembers?!”
I watched, the curious eyes of a twelve year old not having witnessed this in school. I could hear my sister, eight years older then me, crying in her bedroom and my brother, only four years older then me playing his trumpet. The phone would ring a lot too, and dad would threaten to call the police if you stepped a foot in the basement one more time because you had been stealing his pills, the ones he was far from addicted to for his almost broken neck. You would turn, furious and rush out the door. Not without crashing into me, of course, and all you could say was, “You disgust me.” It was christmas eve when this little shindig happened, and my brother and I held each other in the bathroom when we heard dad yelling at you to give him the knife. Our walls were paper thin, and my brother and I felt as if we were in a fish bowl, you both tapping on the tank, and it echoed and it gave us headaches and we just cried.
Soon, my sibling would leave, saying he had to do something, leaving me out in the kitchen, insecure of where I was, and what was happening. You came up stairs, something shiny and silver in your hand. I didn’t know it was the knife dad was yelling at you about, but I would soon find out.
Dad tucked me in, telling me it was going to be okay and that you were just sick and that I was going to my best friend, Kristen’s house.
I saw the flash of red and blue lights from my window and it reverberated all out through my room. I could hear the police sirens along with and ambulance. I didn’t know what happened and all I could do was cry silently into my pillow.
You were taken away that night, sent to rehab for a month and you didn’t even say goodbye.
You’ve been taken away multiple times from me now, and this is three years later, I’m growing up, in my freshman year of high school and your gone again.
This time it’s jail. I don’t even want to know, sure I’ll talk to you every night because believe it or not.
But this is for the words I can not say to your face.
You ruined my life.
You disgust me.
I love you.
 Intoxicated Galaxies · Mon Mar 14, 2011 @ 01:07am · 1 Comments |
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