I've been ruminating,

more obsessing really,

because my way of coping 

with things that upset me 

is to try and forget. 
 

But sometimes the cracks of the dam 

give way from the pressure

of holding back all the feelings 

I've tried not to think about. 
 

Mom, I know you love me 

and mom, I know you care.

But mom, I can't stop myself from thinking 

how fucking could you do these things to me 

and act like it never even happened? 
 

From when I was 8 years old until I left, 

you projected your anger, your fears and your trauma

onto ME. 

 

I'm sorry about what your father did to you, 

no one should ever have to go through that.

But I didn't need to know when I was much upon

the same age you were. 
 

You grabbed at my developing body, 

you made me feel ashamed. 

When I was 13, you accused me 

of sleeping with boys at my bus stop

because they walked on the other side of the street. 

Until I was almost 17, you picked out my clothes 

every night before school. 

You insisted on high necklines, which was fine. 

but then you got mad when the turtlenecks 

you bought would cling to my chest. 

You wouldn't let me shave until I was 14,

you once pulled down my underwear at 16 

to check if I was on my period, 

because that's the only reason why 

I could be "acting like such a bitch". 

I'm 22 now, and I still don't have a regular 

or even healthy sex life with my partner. 

Because out of fear, you taught shame. 
 

You shouldn't have used your experiences

to justify what you were doing to me.

You shouldn't have made me feel like

I was innately bad for acting out 

when you kept me in a constant state of anxiety and fear- 

of what you would do, what you would ask him to do.
 

No 12 year old needs a lock on the OUTSIDE of their door.  

I remember gripping the door frame with all my might 

while he pulled me away to face my punishment

 

You put a camera in the room to watch me

while you had me locked inside  

and when it made me feel crazy 

you laughed and said I was.

 

You put ideas in my head about my other family 

and it wasn't until I was 19 

that I was able to see them for who they are. 

Mom, they love me why couldn't you let me believe that?

 

You made me think that they didn't love me.

You told me that they would always

choose their own daughter over me.

I hate to admit it, but I sometimes worry

about that one still.

After every school function they missed,

you would drive around the parking lot,

just to prove they weren't there.

You said when they asked me to come live with them,

that they just didn't want to pay child support. I was 8.

Every time they did something nice,

you said they were trying to buy my affection.

On my twelfth birthday, I got a phone.

You insisted that it was their way of controlling me.

You had me keep it in the kitchen, way up high

so I had to ask you to use it. It made me uncomfortable.

Because of that, I learned my great grandmother died

not from my father, but from you telling me

that you read it in the obituaries. You gave me my phone,

and when I called my dad, he was already on his way

to the funeral. You held me while I cried,

his moment of comfort stolen from him.

And I never got to say goodbye.

Soon after, you had me give the phone back,

having me rehearse what I was to say when I did.  

 

When I was in the third grade, money went missing 

from on top of the fridge. I was immediately at fault.

When it finally turned up while I was away, 

I was accused of hiding it- I couldn't reach that high  

At 22, I still can't. 
 

The day your husband wrapped his hands 

around my throat and LIFTED me off the ground 

when you asked for his "help",

I choked out, " I can't breathe" 

he said, "good".

You stopped him, but I left that day 

and you tried to convince me I made a mistake.

 

Once I was gone, he had an accident 

and that was when you decided to leave. 

You told me that he abused you too, 

about the secret money, when our family of 7 

lived off of $50 per week in a 2 bedroom condo. 

You told me you were getting divorced on my birthday

when I hadn't seen you in weeks.

 

And just when I needed you to help me process 

everything I had been feeling for years- 

we could have helped each other heal- 

you moved 600 miles away. 
 

And it's so fucking hard to pretend 

that you didn't put me through what you did.

I'm truly so happy for your other kids, 

that you got out and they won't have to live the way I did. 
 

And it's so fucking hard to admit, 

but yes I am more than a bit jealous. 

When I was having a real live psychotic break,

you looked at me in disgust.

But my sister has anxiety now too, 

and you medicated her and put her in therapy. 

I'm proud of your growth, and I'm happy she's getting help, 

but why mama, why couldn't I get the same compassion? 
 

When I was 13, I admitted to you 

that I wanted to kill myself.

In the heat of the argument, 

you said "you know where the knives are".

I know you didn't mean it, but it still hurts even now. 
 

I used to hurt myself right in front of you, 

hitting and scratching and pulling my hair out.

You said there was something wrong with me 

and made me feel ridiculed. 
 

At 16, I told you I had been cutting myself 

and I showed you the still fresh cuts and 

healing scars. You said nothing. 
 

When I was 18, I got a tattoo that meant a lot to me.

I was so excited to show you. 

You were less than impressed and asked

if it meant that I was suicidal. I said yes, 

Don't you remember? I bared my soul to you, 

I told you I was hurting and I needed help. 

Again you said nothing. 
 

Please remember that I love you, 

but there's a reason why I'm distant.

I'm coming into my own now, and I'm trying to move on. 

But I just don't know how much longer 

I can keep playing your game 

of pretending nothing happened 

when I'll never be the same.