Mom is weak like me.
Her home and it’s hallways are lined with piles of old papers, random clothes stacked waist-high, and boxes of books that I had learned to avoid running into in fear of a stubbed toe at the earliest of ages. There is a certain kind of boredom from being neglected in a big house like that caved in on itself. I talk to the walls, I talk to Sister, and I count down the days until Dad will come for me.
When there isn’t boredom, then the shadows appear. The shadows bring fear because Mom is around, and she wears a scowl on her face and I can’t understand why whenever she is around I feel this uncomfortable tingling in my spine. I have to watch my back. She grabs hold of me, and shakes me until I can’t breathe. Sister pushes Mom off of me.
More often now, I think of those times of boredom and neglect. I think of her crying in bed. She is not able to get up, nor able to take care of us. Her breathing is steady and her mind works it’s way down that rabbit hole of depression and self-loathing. I don’t think she really knows what she is doing in this great, big world and I wish she knew that its okay, but sometimes the pain is too much too bare and she is just as afraid of the shadows as I am.
Mom is weak as am I.
I see more clearly my mother’s side of things now as I feel more presently her pain 11 years later. I lay in my bed with the sheets up to my nose. I am aglow in the memory of this life, but wondering what more there really could be for me.
Mom isn’t my enemy. We have more in common then I’d care admit.
I just want to ask her.
Who did you love first? How did it land us all here?