My mother, my muse

 

I don't like my mother. She doesn't like me. She doesn't know me. 

She sees herself as a child in me and I am a redhead, freckled and pale. She's a brunette with a tanned complexion. 

But she is me. She's my image turned inwards. Believing she could get a second chance at love by making me love 

her as a parent, as a friend, she acts humble and pleasing to me.

Despite her lack of awareness and her complete astonishment about why I am not yet turning into a perfect version of 

who she wants me to be, I still think she is important.

She is important because she served the role of giving me life and making my skin thick.

And that is enough for me to be able to write about our experiences together without 'bruising' too easily.

I believe that the most important person in anyone's life is their mother. If their mother was absent or 

too hurtful to be considered a nurturer, they will affect that person's life to a high degree.

Therefore, even though I am sitting here, writing about my mom, instead of having a relationship with her, I still get

satisfaction from being able to express myself and tell the story of how she was 'mothering' me. 

It would have been harder for me to write about my mom if she was not physically present.

Mom was always home, almost painfully present at home. You couldn't say this to her: 'I even forgot you're home. 

You're quiet as a mouse'. She made sure her presence was felt at all times.

She'd use words of cruelty whenever she'd talk to me because, she knew they'd chip away at a little girl's self-esteem.

She wanted to do that so she could have a 'partner' in her suffering. If she felt as a 'little, sad girl', why would her

little girl be happy and unrestrained?

That's fine because, the greatest type of writing is the one that bleeds and makes you question reality.

So I am writing about her because she didn't bother to raise me right. Because she was cruel and empty.

And for that, I thank her.