Mother Dearest

For a time, I loved my mother more than I loved anyone or anything else in the world. I was her ride or die. I told her everything that happened in my life, and I thought that we had secrets just between us. I thought our bond was unlike any other. I fondly remember all the times we'd spontaneously get up at two or three in the morning and we'd go to Taco Bell in Picayune (twenty minutes away from our town, Poplarville), singing Disney songs or just sitting in comfortable silence. I remember reading to her while she was in the hospital, sharing my poetry with her, and practicing French horn for hours upon hours just because she wanted to hear it. I remember all the times we rode roller coasters and we sat in the back, because she swore up and down that those were the best seats. They're some of the best memories in my childhood.

But they're not the full story. I remember being three or four years old and wanting to be a ballerina, because they were so graceful and beautiful. She bluntly told me that I would never be one, because no one would want to dance with a fat ballerina. I remember being younger than ten, wanting to be a singer. I had even gotten on a stage at some point and sang some song that I'd made up on the spot in front of a crowd of people. Not so long after, my mother had told me to stop embarrassing myself, because I would never have a pretty singing voice. Any confidence I had when performing turned into anxiety attacks whenever I'd have to do it in front of a crowd. I was twelve when I started developing breasts; they jumped from barely noticeable to double Ds in the course of a summer. She didn't allow me to run anymore and cruelly teased me with the idea that I'd be raped if I drew too much attention with them. There were so many times when I would beg for counseling because her father had abused me, and she would only promise that I'd get it, but later would yell at me for selfishly bugging her when I'd ask for it again. She went behind my back and lied to my dad and step mom that I was getting counseling, but they shouldn't ask about it because I didn't want to talk about it.

I loved my mother deeply and loyally. At eighteen, I was presented with the opportunity to leave her behind for a healthier home in Texas. I was going to take it, because I was so sick of letting her manipulate and belittle me. But when the time came to gather my things and go...I couldn't. I couldn't leave her. I needed her as much as she needed me. My dad wasn't mad, but he was worried that I was making a decision that would ultimately hurt me more than help me. He told me to call if I changed my mind, and that he'd come get me. I appreciated it.

My mother died in October of 2015 and I went off the deep end. I took so many risks that had I been any unluckier, I wouldn't be writing this right now. I don't even remember most of the ten months after she died. I just know I didn't come to my senses until a week after my breast reduction. There was no point in staying in Mississippi, anymore. Staying in toxic households would only push me deeper and deeper into grief and depression.

As much as I loved my mother and the home that she had made for me throughout my childhood, I was hurting and I needed to heal. I needed to let go. So, I left for Texas with my step mother. I got counseling, started writing again, got a job, and went back to school. I'm continuing to move forward.

To be honest, I still love my mother deeply. But in that love for her, I hold her accountable for every time she lied to me, gaslit me, and belittled me. Even though she's dead and it seems pointless, I hold her accountable because there were too many years when I would let her treat me like a doormat without even thinking of blaming her. I know better now, because I am an adult and capable of taking responsibility for my actions. I am determined to be not only better than her, but better than what she expected of me. Loving her still hurts, but the scars are healing and I am growing.