My mom and I had just finished talking (and crying) how I didn’t want to see the rest because of how awful I felt, and I didn’t want to feel like I had to pretend. So I took the dog out for a walk in the snow. We didn’t even make it across the street when the rest of the family got home. Of course, the dog spotted them so I had no way of escaping the little gettogether.
And so it happened that it was the five of us watching TV.
My mom and I were still hiding the tears of ten minutes earlier
My mom and dad had an arguement earlier about something they’d said
My dad and brother had been on each others lips and backs for the entire week already
My brother and his gf had just been in (another) humongous fight
My brother and I rarely ever talk anyway
Who the fuck is wearing the mask here anyway?!
I realize everybody does this to some extent. We all feel when it is and when it isn’t socially acceptable to not pretend. But I’m pretty sure this is a damn unhealthy setting. And it got me thinking; when am I ever really me?
I think I only really show how my brain’s fucked when I’m fucked. Like, when I get to that completely-out-of-control desperation state. The uncontrollably sobbing, mumbling painfully constructed words. When it’s already too late. And that only ever happens with my mom. My poor mom who I’ve dragged through hell yet not back. Who I left there burning with me. My poor mom who already feels like a failure for letting me get to hell in the first place, for not keeping me away and for not being able to single handedly dragging me out. And then I put the extra burden of spilling my most toxic thoughts to her when doomsday has arrived again. On the poor shoulders of someone who I know doesn’t vent to someone else either. Who will only utter her helplessness, but never her anger. Who will never spill her guts, look for relief in sharing her struggles with anyone, either. And I just keep adding, and adding, and adding!
The second I tear up I feel more guilty than I already did. I know the second I see the tears swell in her eyes I don’t ever want to put her through this again. How desperately I want to become the daughter she deserves, the daughter she fights for. How I want to pay her back by showing her that her hard work paid off. That now it’s okay, and she can relax again. I want to be that free-spirited, happy girl again that she deserves as a child. Because she already has her worry-child, and that was not supposed to be me. My brother can fulfill that role. I am the responsible one, the elder daughter. The one you don’t need to worry about, or look after. She’ll take care of herself and it’ll be fine. The one who can play on her own, study on her own, travel the world and take you out for coffee. That daughter, that’s me. That was me. Thats who she deserves. The one she can vent to about things that bother her, as she used to, and not the one she would want to vent about.
I feel so guilty for still abusing her like I do. For sucking her empty, draining her of all light-heartedness, trust, happiness and energy. I am the vampire yet I’m numbing her into being a zombie. I want to give her back her life and yet here I am, making her pick out a new mask over and over again to cover up what I am turning her into