Crumble

I was trying to figure out why I feel like such a mess. Why I need to scream and lash out and cry and scream some more. And I just realized, as I stood in a burning hot shower, my forehead pressed against the wall, trying to piece together actions and emotions and causation…my mom. I’d made the decision to write about my mom. It’s harder than expected. Harder than my writing about my dad, even, which I didn’t expect. Ive said before that I can’t hide when I write. That it all comes spilling out, eventually. But about her… The words just don’t come. Because when I try to write about my guilt and sorrow and love, the past bubbles to the surface. And I don’t know how to reconcile the two realities; how do I love someone so much and hate them so fucking much at the same time?
 

You know when you tell a robot two conflicting truths it self destructs? (If you lack real world experience with robots reacting to conflicting truths, just play along for a minute.) It’s like my brain can’t handle the paradox of who she was vs who she was before that. So I’m imploding because I cant find the words or even the emotions to release what’s pent up inside. How do I forgive the years of abuse and rage and misery she heaped on me? But, then, how do I hate the woman who took care of me towards the end? 

To have her show me kindness and love for years afterward…it almost makes it worse. Because she was capable of treating so much me better than she did. And then I hate myself for not being able to wholly forgive her when I know how severe her mental illness was. When I know how much she suffered. When I know how much pain she was in. Why can’t that be penance enough?

This is only going to get worse. And I’m not strong enough for this. I’m not strong enough for this to get harder and harder. But I don’t know that I have a choice anymore. These aren’t scars on my psyche…these are wounds. Scars are healed over and can be forgotten or ignored. But the wounds - the open wounds dripping poison into my bloodstream - they can’t be. Well, they can be because they have been. But maybe they can be cleaned out and bandaged up. Maybe they can knit themselves closed and become nothing more than another pale white line I can run my fingers over while remembering how much stronger I’ve become.