The pain only a mother can inflict

Again.

You lost it again.-my respect. It's not like you've had it in the past couple of years. But I've lost what little respect I did have for you. You call me and text me begging for help and telling me that you love me and miss me and that you wish that I would come around to see you. It bothers me that I can't help you financial because I can barely help myself. I can't bring you back to happiness when I can't find my own to begin with you. I can only guide you to where I want you to be but in the end you will always stray away from me. I've tried to let you go and to get over the fact that I can no longer have you unless I accept the drugs you take. I can't just do that. How can you expect me to go through this cycle over and over again and still love you as much as I did before. I'm the only one of your children that ever stands up to you. Honestly is not something you can deal with.


Every time I try to help you, you curse me for merely "being." You've forced upon me tears of confusion, and I swallowed them, choking on the swelling wound in my throat.
You never apologize or offer explanation for all of the things you've put me through.. You've relished in hurting me, and you wanted to feel victorious and bitter at the same time.

As the years are wearing on, I cannot rationalize any of this. The truth is, I can't move the unmovable. I can't light a wet log and make it burn. Yet through all of this shit that you put me through, you still force me to go through your vile past and I'm stuck trying to reverse the karma that is surely suffocating you.


If only the thought of me caring could make you happy....


Our relationship is like a cut. I can't wait for it to scab over from the previous slash to my morale. Yet you pretend nothing happened and you talk to me about ordinary things, looking past my hollow eyes, weakened spirit, and stringent smile.
You feel satisfaction from making sure I cry over you.
You feel justified in hurting me.

I know at some point you wanted to reach out, it stitch this wound, to dress it, and then obliterate my stinging memory. The mark that you've made upon my psyche is likely irreversible, and scarring.

But you'll never care about me.
You gave up on that a long time ago while all along I've been hanging onto you in hopes to make you change.
But I can't change you. And I nearly choke on my words when I talk about this.

I wish that I could be your pulse, your pillar, and the mother to your wounded childed. Somewhere along the lines I realized that I can't fix what you've already done; I am your child. All this time I thought that by taking care of myself it would have made your life easier, but you actually took advantage of me in the sense that you quite caring; I was my own mother.

You probably don't care that you've deeply destroyed me; yourself. If you cared, even for a day, an hour, or a mere moment, it would cause your heart to deflate.

But somewhere in your foggy mind you admire, idolize, sustain, and glorify the very essence of me.

But I'll never truly know that, for you hide it in the far away recess of your mind.
You'll always swallow that pride, and grit your teeth against your own justification, chewing that curdled, god-awful hate that squeaks repulsively against your teeth. I will never be like you. I will never have to reminisce in your indifference.
You swallow the little bits I of what my soul use to be and you don't even give a fuck.

In my mind, I swore it would be the last time my complete unsoundness would overrule reason. I promised this the moment I saw my fathers beautiful face disintegrate under the weight of his indignity. And furthermore, when I turned to you and stiffened my shoulders trying to make it through the pain of my heavy steps, you caught the glisten in my eyes and told me you were done; that you had learned your lesson.

How many more inadequate amends are you planning to carelessly dump into my relentlessly forgiving lap?

To think, it all began when I was just a little child; lips quivering, shoulders quaking, tiny hands wringing, terrified essence, as you scream to me at the top of your lungs to ease you pain and to make it stop. I never learned until now that it was you inflicting the pain onto yourself this whole time.


That makes me feel less than zero.

It ends now.