If Only She Would...

I was twelve years-old when I stopped loving my mother. By that time, I had gotten my period, had my first kiss, and my first orgasm, so she had missed out on some pretty big events; they were big to me at least. I had already fallen in love with my best friend’s mother. She gave me everything I needed to fill that void, so there was no desire or need for what could have been with the woman who gave birth to me.

I stopped sending letters to the prison my mother had been housed in for the last five years. I no longer took the three hour ride to go see her twice a month. I had given up. There was no love or sympathy left. And I think she got the picture. She stopped writing and calling; only asked about me to her other five children and my grandmother. My granny was very disappointed in me, to say the least. My mother was her baby, and she couldn’t understand why I was disrespecting her by refusing to visit or write.

And I couldn’t explain it to her in terms she would understand. She grew up in a time where family members didn’t abandon one another and they stuck it out, no matter what was going on. I was raised by a man who taught me that it was my prerogative. And I took that to heart. If she couldn’t stay out of jail long enough to be there for me, why should I waste my time going to see her, when all we ever talked about was how tall I had gotten or how good I was doing in school? These topics always made for awkward situations and I got tired of consoling my crying sister every time we left the prison. So I just stopped going.

I stopped dropping letters in the mailbox not too long after that. What was there to talk about? Until she was ready to have an honest and open conversation about her parenting or lack thereof, I was on strike. My strike lasted her entire sentence. When she got out, I was 16. I had experienced so much by that time and was not the same, seven-year-old little girl I had been when she left me. I was more observant and less naïve. So I started asking questions. I needed answers. If we were ever going to move forward and establish any kind of relationship, I needed to know. But, she didn’t feel the same. She wanted to act as if that whole time period had never happened. I was not going for that shit.

I wasn’t a fool. I, like the rest of the family, knew she was a criminal and a drug addict. I knew she was good at lying and getting over on people to get what she wanted. But I refused to be a part of that party. She wouldn’t apologize or try to make any amends for the last nine years, so I cut her the hell off. And I haven’t looked back since. Do I miss her? No. Do I wish she was here? Not in the least? If I could say something to her what would it be? You disgust me.

Out of the six children she had, she took care of none. She wasn’t in the least bit responsible for either of us. All of us were in a foster home at some point in our lives; some of us grew up in foster homes. I had the privilege of being raised by my daddy. He was granted full custody of me and my sister when I was four and she was one. And that is how I got the better end of the stick. My other sisters and brothers, not so lucky. I’m not sure if it’s because they were grief-stricken over my mother’s constant disappearances or because they didn’t have someone in their life like I had my father. But I do know they are a pretty sad bunch.

I don’t blame my mother for anything wrong in my life because that would mean she had some control over me. The most I can say she does for me is shoot my anger through the fucking roof when she gets the nerve to call and ask me to come and see her.

And to those of you who just can’t take the fact that I don’t and probably won’t ever love my mother, well, the exit is to your left so simply move on.

XoXo,
Tia L.