Pensively Remembering my Mom; My Friend

In the quiet corners of your home, where laughter should thrive, a heavy silence often takes its place—a silence filled with the echoes of constant criticism and belittlement. You remember the stinging words of your mother, each one carefully crafted to chip away at your sense of self. With every harsh name and cutting comment about your appearance or abilities, you felt the weight of her judgment bearing down, as if you could never get anything right. Each interaction leaves you with the lingering question: Am I enough?

Yet, it’s not just the words that haunt you. The moments she withdraws her affection, using it as a weapon, leave you feeling adrift in a sea of uncertainty. You find yourself striving to earn the love you so desperately seek, always on edge—wondering if today will be the day you finally meet her expectations. You ask yourself, why must love be conditioned upon your actions? Why does it feel like a reward that dangles just out of reach?

And then, there are the times when she plays the blame game, turning her own struggles into burdens for your young shoulders. With every accusation, you become the scapegoat for her unhappiness, her anger unceremoniously cast upon you. You feel pinned under the weight of her emotions, as if you are responsible for her darkest days. Each misplaced anger has you questioning your existence, begging internally for her approval while fearing her discontent.

As you navigate through life, her grip tightens. She attempts to isolate you from laughter and joy, pulling you away from friends and family, as if keeping you close is her only way to feel secure. Pursuing your interests or hobbies feels like a distant fantasy, overshadowed by her silent disapproval—an unspoken rule that your happiness must bend beneath her needs.

The walls close in, and you wonder how much longer you can endure this emotional storm. This tumultuo

us relationship leaves you feeling lost, a mere shadow of who you could be—trapped in a cycle that threatens to persist. How do you break free? How do you reclaim the love that should never have come with strings attached? In this fight for self-worth, you know the journey ahead is long and fraught, but perhaps, just perhaps, there's a glimmer of hope waiting to be uncovered.

And then, in the violent finality of her passing, a flood of memories rushes in—jagged shards of the past melding with whispers of the joyful moments we shared. It’s an unsettling collision, where the hurt feels entwined with the love I carry deep within me. I can’t escape the truth: I love her. Deeply. 

As I reflect on the years we spent together, especially in her last days, I realize how invaluable our bond became. Despite the weight of our troubled history, in those fleeting moments of clarity, I saw her as my greatest ally, my biggest cheerleader. She stood by me, instilling a sense of belief I had yearned for, even amidst the remnants of my broken childhood.

Yet, there’s a lingering ache, an acknowledgment of the pieces of me that are still fractured and may never fully heal. The wounds she inflicted haunt me, but within that darkness, I’ve learned that forgiveness holds an undeniable power. It’s a complex path, a painful admission that love can coexist with regret and sorrow. In my heart, I know that while my struggles remain, the warmth of our friendship in her final years shines brightly through the haze, illuminating the truth that love—though complicated—can be the balm for even the deepest wounds.

In this tangled mess of emotions, I am learning to reclaim my narrative. The weight of my grief is heavy, but slowly, I am finding solace in the understanding that forgiveness is not a gift for her; it is a gift I give to myself.