Amaryllis
October 31st, 2011, 08:44 AM
When I was a little; I had a town, illustrated on a carpet. I used to walk on the roads with my fingers and visit the little 2-dimensional houses.
One night, my mother woke up after a nightmare. She gripped my arms with both hands and shook me, screamed in my face. I don't remember what she said, I don't remember why she was so angry. But her eyes, god, they were horrible. They were filled with so much hatred.
She slapped me across the face and I cried. She told me not to cry, that she wasn't doing anything to me that warranted my tears. She held me then, in her arms, and rocked us both back and forth. Back and forth. She told me how she was raped, how the people who raised her told her she wasn't wanted. Nobody loved her.
She kept repeating it, over and over. I told her I didn't want to listen; she said I didn't care. She gripped my arm and bit it. I screamed. She felt bad after that, so she hit herself. She banged her head on the wall and screamed. Over and over.
I was 4 or 5 then.
My mother used to get angry at me, every single day. She would threaten to kill herself. She'd drive while she scolded me, and said she would kill us both. She would scream and hit the steering wheel, hit her head against the steering wheel, hit me. She hit everything.
One time, she drove the car into a tree. I don't remember the actual second when the car hit the tree. I just remember being so, so afraid that she would really hit the tree. I was in primary school. I wanted to live.
God, I thought I was going to die.
My parents said, if they died, I had to die with them. They didn't want me to live a life without them. But mum, dad, my life doesn't revolve around you. But if they couldn't live - I couldn't, either. My parents used to take me on plane rides. I hated them. My mother told me it would crash. It would kill us all. She would be with my father and I forever and ever. The plane was going to crash.
I'm still terrified of falling.
My mother used to take sticks and beat me with them. She'd beat my arms till my wrists were raw and red, till they bled. The beatings really hurt. Not as much as those eyes, though. She'd look at me with eyes filled with hate. So, so much hate.
I've always had to look after my mum. I sleep with the sound of her crying in my ears. It used to happen everyday. I remember gripping my pillow and checking up on my mum to see if she was okay. She'd have her nails in her flesh, rocking back and forth.
"Come here, baby. Come here."
I'd hold her, comfort her. Let her rock me. Because I was afraid she'd kill herself. I still am. Sometimes it gets too much. So I just lie there, eyes wide open, listening to her cry and the occasional scream.
I took on my mother's habits at a young age. The nail digging, hitting, biting since I could form coherent thoughts. And when I was 9 or younger, cutting. I took on her temper, the self-hate. The depression. Even the rape, ma. I know how you feel now.
I try so, so hard though, to be different. I smile, crack stupid jokes, try my best to cheer you up. It doesn't work, though. I'll never be good enough for you, mum. I get straight As. I do what you say. I hug you, tell you I love you. Why can't I fill the holes in your heart, ma? I'll be a good girl. Just smile. Please, please just smile.
Why can you cry, but not me, mama? Why can't I hurt and scream, too? Why won't you see a psychologist? Why do I have to? Why can't I cut, burn and hit myself, when you can? Why do I have to take care of you? Why do I have to be here? Why can't you help me, mama? Why can you kill me when I can't kill myself?
I'm 15 now. I should be over this. I should know better by now, but you got angry today. You sped again. I relived it. I thought I was going to die. The memories will always be there. You still hit me. You still hate me. You and my father do. You said so yourselves. I shouldn't be here, you said. I'm a mistake. So kill me, ma. Kill us both.
I don't think I'd be sorry.
One night, my mother woke up after a nightmare. She gripped my arms with both hands and shook me, screamed in my face. I don't remember what she said, I don't remember why she was so angry. But her eyes, god, they were horrible. They were filled with so much hatred.
She slapped me across the face and I cried. She told me not to cry, that she wasn't doing anything to me that warranted my tears. She held me then, in her arms, and rocked us both back and forth. Back and forth. She told me how she was raped, how the people who raised her told her she wasn't wanted. Nobody loved her.
She kept repeating it, over and over. I told her I didn't want to listen; she said I didn't care. She gripped my arm and bit it. I screamed. She felt bad after that, so she hit herself. She banged her head on the wall and screamed. Over and over.
I was 4 or 5 then.
My mother used to get angry at me, every single day. She would threaten to kill herself. She'd drive while she scolded me, and said she would kill us both. She would scream and hit the steering wheel, hit her head against the steering wheel, hit me. She hit everything.
One time, she drove the car into a tree. I don't remember the actual second when the car hit the tree. I just remember being so, so afraid that she would really hit the tree. I was in primary school. I wanted to live.
God, I thought I was going to die.
My parents said, if they died, I had to die with them. They didn't want me to live a life without them. But mum, dad, my life doesn't revolve around you. But if they couldn't live - I couldn't, either. My parents used to take me on plane rides. I hated them. My mother told me it would crash. It would kill us all. She would be with my father and I forever and ever. The plane was going to crash.
I'm still terrified of falling.
My mother used to take sticks and beat me with them. She'd beat my arms till my wrists were raw and red, till they bled. The beatings really hurt. Not as much as those eyes, though. She'd look at me with eyes filled with hate. So, so much hate.
I've always had to look after my mum. I sleep with the sound of her crying in my ears. It used to happen everyday. I remember gripping my pillow and checking up on my mum to see if she was okay. She'd have her nails in her flesh, rocking back and forth.
"Come here, baby. Come here."
I'd hold her, comfort her. Let her rock me. Because I was afraid she'd kill herself. I still am. Sometimes it gets too much. So I just lie there, eyes wide open, listening to her cry and the occasional scream.
I took on my mother's habits at a young age. The nail digging, hitting, biting since I could form coherent thoughts. And when I was 9 or younger, cutting. I took on her temper, the self-hate. The depression. Even the rape, ma. I know how you feel now.
I try so, so hard though, to be different. I smile, crack stupid jokes, try my best to cheer you up. It doesn't work, though. I'll never be good enough for you, mum. I get straight As. I do what you say. I hug you, tell you I love you. Why can't I fill the holes in your heart, ma? I'll be a good girl. Just smile. Please, please just smile.
Why can you cry, but not me, mama? Why can't I hurt and scream, too? Why won't you see a psychologist? Why do I have to? Why can't I cut, burn and hit myself, when you can? Why do I have to take care of you? Why do I have to be here? Why can't you help me, mama? Why can you kill me when I can't kill myself?
I'm 15 now. I should be over this. I should know better by now, but you got angry today. You sped again. I relived it. I thought I was going to die. The memories will always be there. You still hit me. You still hate me. You and my father do. You said so yourselves. I shouldn't be here, you said. I'm a mistake. So kill me, ma. Kill us both.
I don't think I'd be sorry.