My mom didn’t hate me
I just typed a note to someone that referred to how my mother hated me. That’s not exactly the truth.
My mother couldn’t hate me because she never knew me.
She hated what I represented, which was, I believe, a very blurry reflection of herself. Whenever she got close to taking an interest in who I was, as a unique individual separate from her, she grew angry and dismissive at best, abusive more times than not. But I don’t think she ever had a clear picture of who *I* am.
She’s dead now and I’m trying to not let it ruin the last part of my life. Whenever I feel sad about not getting to say goodbye to her, I just remember the last thing she said to me was abusive and controlling. Now I guess I will focus on pitying her so I can emotionally put her into her grave and leave her in the past.
It gets tiresome, carrying this dead woman.
I am alive and vibrant and she is a drain on me.