“I love you more than the sky.” You told me that every day as a kid. “You’re fat. You’re attention seeking.” You told me this every night as a kid while you scolded me and grabbed my arm, but I doubt you remember. I think this is how I started to confuse love with abuse and anger. I think this is why I was so confused as a child. I think this is why I didn’t figure out who I really was till I was sixteen. You promised to stop drinking when I was thirteen and you didn’t. You promised you weren’t getting divorced when I was nine and now you are. I think this is why I have trust issues. I think this is why I didn’t believe in love until I met him. I punched three holes in my wall, broke three knuckles and tore a ligament out of anger. Towards you. You will never be someone I aspire to be like, yet I am just like you in many ways. Like how we are both so very prone to addiction, but I stopped. You didn’t. Is it your willpower to do so? Or is it in your genes? Frankly, I don’t care. Because with every “I love you,” you left me more empty and filled me with doubt. I am not sure if I love you, I don’t think I ever will be certain with you. You were supposed to love me. I think you tried, but you lied and lied and lied. Then told me not to. You were supposed to love me. You were my mother. Were.