To My Mother

To my mother, I suppose I hate you.

I don’t know what else I’m supposed to say.

When I left you, I told you not to follow me.

You didn’t, but not because I asked you.

You had told me for years that you loved me, you had told me you cared, you had told me that this was eternal and it would never end.

You never told me that if I failed what you wanted, you’d throw me away.

What was the point in lying to me?

Why did you think that you had to lie to me?

To my mother, I suppose I love you.

You taught me what is right and wrong in this world.

You taught me to fight for what I believed in.

You taught me how to talk the talk, walk the walk and own every inch of myself.

When I told you who I was, you told me that you loved me anyways, and I cried to you.

You told me that you loved me when it mattered, when I needed it, and there was nothing else that mattered.

You were the only constant good in my life, my heart tied to yours.

To my mother, I suppose I’m sorry.

My mind’s been broken since the day I was born.

I wasn’t me when I was born, and I lived with it for eighteen years.

You told me we could fix it, but I was afraid, so I said no.

My brain tortured me months, my body trapped me years, and all I could do would lash out.

You just happened to be closest.

Those words were not mine, and I hope you can hear that from me.

To my mother, I suppose I’m angry.

You never took the time to educate me.

You said we could fix it, but you never told me what that would entail.

I looked for answers on my own, and when I told you I was scared, you pushed me away.

When I told you about my brain, you said the torture wasn’t real.

You threatened me and told me you’d send me away.

You’d send me away so that you didn’t have to deal with it.

And then you did.

Twice.

To my mother, I suppose I’m empty.

When I see you, I’m depressed.

You lied to me, you told me the truth and you think you’re better than me in every way.

You thought you owned me, you thought you cared for me and all of it hurt.

My scars run deep, and they won’t heal for a long, long time.

To my mother, I suppose…

I’m perplexed.

What the hell am I to you?