TWO BLOGS IN ONE DAY LET'S GOOO (tw: mother issues)

Sorry, this is yet another sad one. This is basically part two of another blog on my dad.

If you saw the last blog, you know about how much fun I had at a sleepover. If not, I had fun, that's all. Before I left, me and my mom argued because of course we did. We just do.

The issue is that I'm just like her. When we get yelled at, we both go quiet. When we get pissed, we yell the loudest. When we hate each other, we're looking into mirrors. The difference is that I'm learning to admit that, and she never will. Why doesn't she see it when I try? Why doesn't she touch the mirror and realize what she made is her? I'm her, and I hate it. I don't want to be my dad either, but this isn't any better.

She's been hurt, I know. I was there each time to listen to their fights when no one else would. I would sit against my door, waiting with a stuffed animal to see if she was still alive. The little girl that should've been a kid wiped her mother's tears, rubbed her back, and listened. I played house every day. I was never allowed to be a mailman or just some person on the sidewalk. I was mom. Like her, I was tethered to a house.

It's not that I'm mad at her for hurting me, I just wish I could be in some love bombing situation. If she promises to say sorry, I'll let her hurt me. I just need her to say she loves me. That's she's proud. That I'm more than a girl to her. I want her to say sorry, just one more time. After an argument she apologized. I think it was last year or the year before that. Just that one time. I couldn't believe it. Why was it so hard back when I was naive and innocent enough to forgive her?

She called me a slut one time when I wanted to wear the heels I bought. She could've at least told me before I had bought them, but it worked. I didn't wear heels again. Not until graduation, when she made me. She's threatened to send me away for everything. I'm the only kid that's been grounded, despite being the "mature" kid. I'm also bisexual, so I'm the butt of every gay joke. She says she supports the community, but she doesn't look at me right. Like when I mention it, she can't look at me. My sister says I'm just looking for reasons to hate our parents, but even my older sister has noticed. She played mom too, and she was one at age 17. I'll never do that. I can't be my mother and a mother at the same time unless I intend to hurt them too.

I've planned to pass away before, nothing new. It's too normal these days. I remember I had this pack of "medicine candy" in my hamper. I forgot it was there. After not being able to do my laundry, my mother did it and found it. Heading home from school, I lied to my sister and she fell for it. She got me out because she believed that I was gonna make an earring out of it. A Pinterest image saved me. I don't think mom fully bought it though, because she took it. It's right on her desk like a trophy, on display for me to see each time I pass it. I think the worst part is that she didn't even talk to me, just gave me a look. I wish she would've at least comforted me. How many attempts do I need to make before she sees me? I want her to look at me, not in disgust, just at me.

I wish she knew I liked her. Fights and all. I will never love her, and she will never wash my hair or do my makeup for the next big event in my life again, but I like her. She loves photography, she hates geckos, she loves finding new recipes, she hates drinking, she loves her first daughter, she hates my dad, she loves her family, and she hates the one she made. She's dying, and only I know. Because like the little girl I am, I was sitting at the door, listening to their most recent fight when no one else did. While my older brother argued with my dad, while my little sister covered her ears, while my little brother sobbed. While each person was busy, I wasn't. I could hear her say it. Someday, soon enough, I will truly be my mother.

I want to think that maybe she hurt me for a reason. Maybe she hurt me all my life because she knew I'd hate her enough to not miss her. She hurt everyone else too, and only my little sister can confidently say that she loves her. But my older brother hurt her back. My older sister left and has her kids to worry about. My little brother is too spoiled to care. Maybe if I was the one "normal kid" she had and had kept that role, she would love me. Or, at the very least, learn to like me. Learn to like herself.