My Mother; My Enemy

(written Wednesday night, 13^th of June)

So we have it dear readers, the culmination of mother dearests and my relationship. She has admitted that she is my enemy, when I have been telling my father that for years. She is my enemy. And thus, we end the relationship.

The last time I apologise, the last time I let her hurt me, if it is only a tiny amount. “If you can’t rely on your family, who the fuck do you rely on?” she said to me, she also told me to “Grow up, wake up and look at reality around you. The sooner you learn to stand on your own two feet, the better off you’ll be.” Stand on my own two feet? Since when have I relied on anyone else? Oh right, my father. I suppose I should distance myself from him too?

She reckons that something has died inside her, that this is my life, my reality, where I’ll grow to be very lonely. People will only love me, she says, when I love myself. How right she is. Isn’t it ironic? In her aim to hurt me, to make me cry, she hit the nail on the head. I don’t love myself. I can’t. I hate myself, I hate that I’m so much like her it scares me. I hate how she’s hurt me, I hate how she’s forced me to be something I’m not…You all know what I’m like, you all know me better than she knows me, but because the me –you- know, isn’t the same me that she knows, she assumes that I’m stringing you along. That I’m deceiving you.

She begrudges me, because she has to go to a councillor tomorrow and tell them that she can’t cope with me. She begrudges me because the councillor quite correctly names my suicidalness as a cry for help and she doesn’t want to see that. She can’t. She begrudges me the money I’ve cost her, even now, when I ask for next to nothing for –myself- as a want, -not- a need, she begrudges me that. When I need a new school uniform, or shoes, she begrudges me that she has to buy them. She begrudges me the fuel it costs her so that ‘we can go out places’. I have not asked her, yet this year for her to take me someplace that I didn’t need to go so that I wouldn’t disappoint someone other than myself. She begrudges me for being depressed, for being suicidal, for one of my friends, whome cares for me deeply, going almost mad with grief when they thought I was gone, and threatening her life. She begrudges me for wanting my independence, she begrudges me for hating her, she begrudges me for not knowing why I should have apologised. I still don’t know. She begrudges me for not being able to tell her what –she- did wrong…when she cannot do the same for me? She begrudges me for the arguments she has with her boyfriend, she begrudges me the food I eat, the water I use, she begrudges me my life, my very existence and the hardships I’ve put on her. She wonders why I hate her?

“If you get yourself in trouble, you fuck up your life, don’t come crying to me.” She says “Go to your fucking father, I don’t want to know.” Like I would go to –her- for help? She would most likely only make the situation worse.

She says “You always say to me, I love you because you’re my mother, well I love you because you’re my daughter.” Like that’s supposed to hurt? I had a talk with her, obviously, I apologised to start things…and it came to this. My mother, my enemy. The entire conversation, I was silent, except for maybe a no, or a yes, motionless except for a shrug of my shoulders but everything she said to me, every word that came from her mouth, you could see it in her eyes, see it in her face, everything was designed to hurt me, to get me to cry so that she could gloat and say “The truth hurts, don’t it?”

She’ll not see me cry, ever. I will not give her that satisfaction, she already has the satisfaction of hearing me apologise, never again will I be so weak as to think that there might have been something worth salvaging. Might have been. No longer. I do not care. She can deliver all the ultimatums she likes, make all the threats she likes, I’ll just shrug, move around them, get on with my life as though she was not in it, for she will not be, come the end of school. Come my final exams, I will be gone. Perhaps I should plan more, start looking for houses, or something, who I’m supposed to stay with….but I cant …care you know? If all else fails I’ll go live with my father, if he refuses me, I’ll live on the streets, I don’t care.

She says I’ll become a hermit, she says that like it’s supposed to hurt me. She reckons that because I spend so much time on the internet, I’ll lose my ability to communicate with others. I don’t care. Nothing she can say, nothing she will say, has said, will hurt me any more. Nothing.

So, regardless, I am my own transport, except for perhaps Friday nights, when they need me here to look after the child, otherwise I am on my own, under my own steam. It is liberating, is it not? It should have come to this years ago, then I would not have had to rely on her, I would not have had to….depend on her good will. You know something? When I was oh…13 or so, she would have had me riding to the bustop, near on 7km away, because –she- didn’t want to have to get up at 7am to take me at 7.30. Then she used the excuse that my dad couldn’t take me, not and work. She would have made me too, come rain, hail or shine, ride to and from the bustop, uphill one way, downhill the other, a 2 hour walk uphill, because –she- didn’t want to pick me up. My father told her, that it might work in summer, but what about in winter, when it was raining or –2 degrees or colder? ‘fuck school, I’m staying home’. So, she saw the sense and I didn’t have to hoof it. But now, ah, now I do.

Good thing it is 2km or so from the bustop to m-..her house, is it not? A mere 20 minute walk. An hour’s bikeride from work, but then I’m crossing two suburbs and going uphill to boot. Half-hour ride to work. But hey, it doesn’t matter you know?

Ah yes, I’ve just received orders, I’m to go with her to the councillors, tell them what’s going on because I won’t tell her. You need to listen to be told something. You cannot listen if your gums are flapping mother dearest, try shutting up for a bit, you might be amazed at what you hear.

Oh joy, she just came in, yelled at me because she had to see the councillors. “What are we going to tell them? That you saying you were going to suicide was only for sympathy? Is it the truth is it a lie?”

I shrug.

“Well which is it?”

“A bit of both maybe.”

And so on, until she gets fed up and says “Fuck you.” And shuts the door.

Ten minutes later the boyfriend makes a comment “From what I’ve heard so far, it sounds like you’ll be lucky to come home with her tomorrow, sounds like they’re going to lock her up.”

“Once they find out what she’s been doing, they ought to.”

Charming little family aren’t we? If this is so dear readers, and I do get locked up, then do not panic, do not stress, I’m sure I’ll still go to school, I’ll post my blogs when I can, so that you can be reassured of my existence. But it brings something to light does it not? Nymphomania. An irrational and unreasonable need for sex. Perhaps I’m one of them, perhaps I have that problem, as well as being depressed. Wouldn’t it make my life just dandy dear readers?

But then, I’ve known for years that I was crazy, you’ve most likely known for as long as you’ve known me, that I was a bit round the bend, they just haven’t gotten around to diagnosing me. In an odd way I’m looking forward to it, to being diagnosed as insane…then I would be out from under her roof, would I not?