“But I’m a good mother.” I would hear every time I tried to argue with her wrath. Her wrath, Shown through her shallow actions and Distasteful words that Would hurt me like A razor I used to just stay a little bit in control. Programmed to “It must be me” “I am not good enough.” “I am wrong.” “I wish I’d die.” While she smiled in her glow watching my despair. To keep me caged, She’d use checkpoints like “I only want what’s good for you.” And “Sometimes you have to adjust.” While snapping her fingers and her tongue when wanting misery and pain followed by “Trust me, I know.” not to cause suspicion - pushing me away while pulling me tighter. When my mouth rejected food, I put pressure on my family, not myself. When my wounds were revealed, I disappointed her, not myself. I used to think She had the answers to everything now I know Life can’t always go her way And when it doesn’t go her way she made sure she let everybody know and as I absorbed her pain all these years, drove myself insane thinking how selfish I am to think that my own mother will never love me because I made her ill, but she had to work to provide for me even though I pay my own bills and how she can’t possibly be that horrible because she is a good mother and that it’s all in my head and all my fault and I should be ashamed and selfish for making this about me, not her it wasn’t until my therapist pointed out the ugly truth “It’s not you, it’s your mother.”
My dissertation, a poem called NARC (one of my favourite pieces). (via fittybittybody)









