Dear mom,

Dear mom

I purposely didn’t call you today.

Not out of spite, I suppose it’s just because I didn’t see you as a mother. Sorry, I don’t think I ever really will.

I called Aunt Joyce today, she said she hasn’t heard from you since before Grams died, that you weren’t even the one that called her to tell her. She told me that me calling her was a wonderful thing to happen on mother’s day, and that sort of warmed me up.

I don’t really know why I thought you were sincere when I went up there when Grams died. Maybe I was just vulnerable. Maybe because you are so fucked up I figured you wouldn’t judge me. Because the only person I’ve ever felt like never judged me was grams. Maybe because you told me to put my jacket back on when I was sitting outside drunk, like you actually cared or something. Maybe it just felt familiar because Grams always tried to cure everything with alcohol and cigarettes, even me at some times. Maybe I just wanted to believe it so much, that maybe now, after all these years you would change. Grams always said something would happen one day that would make you grow up, she even mentioned her own death as an example, so I suppose in a fucked up sort of way I counted on that. But I was wrong. I know I count my eggs before they are in my basket, sometimes I feel like I don’t even have a basket.

You’ve gotten to the point where I don’t care if you die. I think Harley feels the same right now, you are that bad. But at the same time I hurt for those kids that are growing up without their mother, not that you would do a good job if you were here, but because when you are that young you don’t know fucked up things about your mother.

You know what I will never understand? And I figured you might be able to help me on this one. It’s that no matter how happy I am, and how much I have in life, no matter how spoiled I become, I still always feel wounded, like I deserve some sort of compensation. The thing is, I seek it out through the world, when really it should come from you. I will always feel like my life is shit simply because you don’t think it is. Even when you said sorry for everything it was followed by an explanation. I don’t need an explanation, I don’t need you to tell me the “real” reasons why you did those things, because those reasons don’t mean sorry, they mean it wasn’t your fault. But it was, everything was your fault. And no matter how close I am to some people, and how much they know about you and what happened, even if they know it all, they will never understand how much it hurt. They won’t ever pat me on the shoulder because of how disgusting it was to see you passed out on the floor, they will pat me on the shoulder because they think it’s a nice gesture. I don’t want to feel like the world owes me, that just makes me a fucking brat. I just don’t know how to shake it off of me, and maybe that’s why you are the way you are, because you never felt like you got a sorry. And I want to say that I won’t be like you, that I won’t blame my misery on my mother, but I don’t know if that’s something I haven’t already done. Most of the time I hate myself for selfishness, but I don’t ever change it, I don’t care to change it. I know what I do. I recognize my flaws, but I’m to pathetic to fix them, maybe I learned that from you.

I hope whoever reads this doesn’t judge me, or ask me about it, or tell me I’m right or wrong for feeling the way I do. I’m just vomiting my thoughts onto this blog, and maybe one day when I get too fed up I’ll forward you this web page and you can see what the past few years has done to me. But I don’t really know if that would hurt you or make you happy, I don’t know if I would want to chance it making you happy.

I’m going to get some sleep.

Dear Mom

It’s finally safe to say that I hate you, and I hope that I will never feel any different about that for the rest of my life, because if I ever stop hating you, it’s because I’m being fucking stupid. I can’t even begin to describe how much I wish you would just die. I don’t even mean disappear or some shit, I just want you to die, so I would never have to worry that one day you would show up again, or know that you are out there some where living a happy life, because you don’t deserve it for shit. I thought you would figure things out after grams died, but you just used that as another crutch, and fuck you for that, because you didn’t really care about her. I always played that horrific day in my head hundreds of times when I was younger, and always imagined that you would either change your ways, or take all you could out of her jewelry box. I should have known that since you hit up the jewelry box when she was alive, it was just that much easier to do it when she was gone. I’m no longer a victim when it comes to you, for starters, because my life is perfect now, I have everything I could ever need or want, no thanks to you. And lastly, I am no longer a victim because I won’t allow myself to be. You have no power over me, and though you might have power over the people I love, none of that is going to make people love you. I wish you would just realize that, you can’t force love on people. I’m sorry if you felt slighted growing up, but instead of letting it make you stronger, you just made yourself weaker. Your sob story means nothing to me, or anyone else for that matter, because you are a fucking adult with six kids, and your biggest complaint is that you grew up fucked up. Well no one was fucking up your life after 18 you cunt. Sometimes I see myself compensating for my selfishness with what has happened to me, but I know that isn’t right, and what some one else did to me doesn’t make me who I am. I hope what I said to you hurt, and I hope it hurt because you know it’s true. That’s all I can really say, I just want you to hurt, I want you to actually feel remorse for all that you’ve done. Not that you ever will, but whatever.

I hope you wake up each morning knowing that I hate your poisoned guts, and if I had it my way, I would never have to hear your bullshit voice for the rest of my life. You have Harley now, but you won’t always, and once he’s gone, you will have nothing, just like you should.

Dear Mom,

Today is Thanksgiving. You actually called. Thank you. I know that all day I’ve tried to block you out of my head, but I know that later on I would sit all alone in my room some sad fucking music and think about how shitty it was that you didn’t even call. But for the first time, you did.

Today the Spongebob Movie was on TV. You took me and Harley to see that one. There was only two movies you ever took me and Harley to go see for no occasion, just us three, off to the theater on an uneventful day. The Spongebob Movie and The Rugrats Movie. It’s funny that now that you are gone all these irrelevant memories of you pop up out of no where, and I always feel the need to tell someone else, so that I won’t forget them. I don’t know why it is so important to me that I don’t forget them, but it is. I guess you never really had too many nice things to say about Grams, and I want a few nice things to say about you. It’s not that I feel like you deserve it or anything, it’s just that, you are my mother, I came from your body, and it’s nice to feel like there were good things about you. I would like to feel like I don’t automatically inherit all your sins.

Nothing much is new for me, I kind of haven’t been doing shit lately. It’s one of those unmotivated things. I hope it’s just part of feeling like a hopeless teenager, I would hate to be like this for the rest of my life, even though sometimes I’m positive that I will be.

I debate with myself alot if it is possible that I will be unsatisfied with my life forever, and most times I tell myself that that is a ridiculous notion, but then I think of you. You have never really been satisfied, always a restless soul, uprooting everything just with the glimmer of hope that something else might make you happy. I can’t say I haven’t thought about that very same thing. Of course it has to pass through your mind at some point. But I just always remember how it made me feel when you did it, and I don’t ever want to make anyone feel that way. There are so many things that you have made me feel that I would never want to do to someone else.

I guess I’m starting to get into that pathetic finger pointing game again, so I’ll wrap this up.

Happy Thanksgiving Mom,

I hope what you have now was worth it.

I hope your conscience eats at you and you can’t breathe without me.

(Source: cuddlesz)

Dear Mom,

I don’t know why I called you. I knew it would hurt. I fucking knew it when I thought of the idea. I knew it when I called Grams for your number. I knew it when I dialed it. I knew it when the phone rang. I even thought about real hard when I called the second time because you hadn’t answered. And your fucking voice, wow. It just hurts me to hear it. It hurts me that you sounded so fucking annoyed when I called. When I told you who I was and all you could say was “Yes, I know who you are, I recognize your voice.” Just… fuck you. Honest, fuck you. I don’t know why this hurts so much, because I shouldn’t give a fuck how some one like you feels about me. But I do, oh God, I do. I can’t understand why you don’t care about me. Up until I left home I was a great kid, something you should have been proud of. Even after I left home I didn’t do too bad. I slipped up a few times, but I stayed on track. I want you to hurt, like I really do. I want you to hurt as much as you have hurt me, and everytime I call you to tell you how I feel, you hang up. I suppose you were never really a big fan of the truth. I don’t really know if I am. I’ve come up with alot of twisted things in my head to try to explain our relationship. Most of them I guess are irrational, but they still make sense.

One day I would really like to sit you down and just tell you every single thing you have ever done to hurt me. The tiniest shit. I would love for you to feel like the scum you are.

Dear Mom,

Lately I have really just wanted to call you and tell you what complete shit you are. It sounds like such a lovely idea, though I don’t have your number, and I would look kind of ridiculous without you provoking me first. But wow, I just want you to wake up each morning and know that your own flesh and blood thinks you are worthless scum.

17247.) I feel terrible about this, but I always think about it. I want something terrible to happen to you just once. You get everything and you don’t deserve any of it. You’re a bitch, and I just want your life to come crashing down because then, you’ll be getting what you deserve.

(Source: blogsecret)