I hate my mother. I hate her for allowing my father to hit me and yell and scream at me like a mad man. I never thought that she was part of the problem when I was a kid; I used to protect her. But she did not protect me. Why not? I was a kid.
She would let me walk home alone (at age 6) or live in a dump or tell me that I was lazy and selfish, and an educated bum. You know, I believed you. I trusted you. I believed your weaknesses and insecurities that you felt about yourself. You hated something and that something felt like me. Why would a child think like that? You knew and you still did it. Shame on you.
I understood that you were also a kid then. So I forgave you for a lot of it. What I don’t forgive is how you behave now: full of poison. It makes me sad to a point, but I hope that you don’t expect full sympathy; I’m not going to show gratitude that you didn’t abort.
I accept that I will probably always be the villain in our stories. And that is fine with me–it keeps you away from me. With all the names that you called me, I can see how it might be easier for you to hate me than hate yourself. But your shit is your shit. You keep it.
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