It is difficult to understand the struggles of a woman who is a martyr, when I have yet to find something worth dying for. Or that is where my mother and I differ. I want to find a reason to live, and expand on that, while she bleeds out for pleasure.
Everyone has run out of apologies. Personalities change out of convenience, or necessity. Outcomes have become unpredictable. Mothers neglect daughters, and fathers corrupt sons. Mirrors reflect distorted images. I know all this, and have stopped being upset by it. If the record skips, at least I will memorize the repeated lyrics. I will remember the priest who came by to exorcise the demons my mother came to believe had overtaken my body. I will remember the freedom I felt by running away from home, in adolescence. I will remember the release had by beating on my own arms, so that physical pain would be greater than emotional pain. I will remember learning to stay awake, so that no one could hurt me in the quiet hours. I will remember mother and her overdoses, and her cocaine, and every time she screamed that I am a pathetic nothing.
I understand, when I would rather not. I am the child who came to ruin a marriage that was already in a delicate state. There would be no other woman who could threaten my father’s affection for her, the way I could. With no intent to usurp her, with no malice behind my actions, I filled her role when she found no real interest in it. I became a mother, diligently looking after those that would allow me. And my father’s sharp eyes rested on me.
Mother does not care that I ran from them. That, to this day, I hide my body from the world, as best I can.