I’ve started to stop thinking about my mom. After a long day yesterday, I realized I had spent the whole day without thinking about her—something that has practically never happened before. What happens if one day comes and I never think about her again? What if I die, and she’s the last thing on my mind? What happens then? Why is my mom so important to me? I don’t even know what she looks like anymore. I haven’t known what she looks like since I was sixteen.
I wish I could tell my mom about all the mistakes I’ve made. Tell her about the nights I drank too much and had no idea how I made it home, or how many friendships I’ve fucked over because of my own feelings. Maybe I’d tell her about the array of men I’ve allowed to crawl into my bed just to feel loved, or the fact that I only went to college out of spite—to prove I would be something—but then felt like I was nothing all at the same time. I’d tell her about the many nights I cried my eyes out, wishing she would call me. Maybe I’d tell her about all the people I’ve hurt because of the hurt she caused within me.
And in spite of all my pitfalls, I would stand in front of her and show her the better woman I’ve become. But sadly, my mom could never see me as anything but a fuck-up. No matter how far I go or how many successes I may have in my life, none of it will ever matter to her. My mom will forever and always see me as the awful, deranged girl I was at sixteen. She will never see me for the person I have worked so hard to become, and today, that is a hard pill to swallow.