my own mistakes

My mother wasn't there much, emotionally, when I was a kid. Sure, she gave me food and shelter and basic needs, and even a fair amount of the things I wanted, the little luxuries and frivolous necessities. But she was distant, reserved, since father died. I hated her for it. She'd help me out if I was injured physically but if I needed someone to talk to she just wasn't available. Even if I tried she'd just sit there, frozen, like she was afraid to answer but couldn't run away--not from her son.

I watched my friends carefully. They were close to their parents. Even when they fought, it was the fighting that happens when you're close to someone--only angry because there's love there, and you've bruised the relationship. Not my mother. It was so cold and emotionless. It was worse, watching her interact with her friends--laughing, engaged. There was so much intimacy in that stupid, hateful, petty gossip they'd share, when they thought I wasn't paying attention. When she brought men home and you could feel the warmth between them. It was sickening.

I'm not going to pretend I made good decisions. I didn't. I did everything I could think of to rebel. Some of it I wanted to. Some of it was just in the hopes she'd do something, say something. I wanted to see some anger, some disappointment, anything at all. And the less she cared the more I hated her for it. I moved out as soon as I could, just to get away. Things haven't gone well for me since then. I hate this apartment. I never used to drink to escape, or womanize just to try to feel something again. I can barely stay on top of my bills. I'm exhausted and unmotivated and purposeless.

The thing is I know there's people worse off than me. My ex came from an abusive past--they just wanted to raise their daughter right, keep her from ever hanging out with boys like me. A lot of good that did. They made mistakes, pushed too hard, tried too hard, and she's stuck with them. At least my mother let me make my own mistakes.