Mum got angry today, she yelled at me and I don’t know why. Dad is away for the week so it’s my sister and I here alone with her. When Dad is gone she takes out her anger on me. It’s like she blames me for his absence, it’s my fault that she is not happy, it’s my fault that she has to hurt me.
She lashes out with her fists, never to my face, only to my body. She strikes out at me like I am nothing, it’s with a whip that takes my breathe away, leaving welts that turn to scars. She abuses me with words that only verbalise hate for me, her daughter. She slams the door, she shuts me out, she takes out her abandonment, her depression on me. She has no sentiment, no care or any love, she only sees me as the body for which she can punish, I am who she blames, I am the fault in her life, I am the reason why she feels alone, why she has to abuse, has to cause hurt because to inflict is easier than to suffer on your own.
It isn’t Dads fault that he is away, he earns the money for our family, allows my mother to take advantage of all that my Dad worked for. Dad comes home every second week and it returns to some normality, there are attempts at love, attempts to be family -no matter how fake it is. Under the scars of what my mother has inflicted there is still darkness, I still feel the pain she has inflicted upon me.
I was only 11, when we started to ride horses and that was the day my mum advanced from using the wooden spoon to using the dressage whip. The spoon had more power but the whip it cut, it left blood, and most of all it left me with scars that my mother wanted me to have so that I would always be reminded of her wrath, her control, and the pain that she inflicted upon me throughout my life.
I try to be brave, not to yell out with the pain, I try to be strong and stand up to her. I am only 11, she has more courage, more strength and much more hatred. She does what she wants, it doesn’t matter how wrong it is or how much hurt she causes, she will always have the power, the control and she will always know that she stole from me everything that I needed to grow up healthy, happy, and me. I know my Dad didn’t know what she did to me or how she changed my life forever, it wasn’t him, it wasn’t his fault, he wasn’t home to see how she really was.
It was when I was 11, it could’ve been earlier I struggle to remember, but it was around this time that I lost my way, I only existed as a body, feeling only a deep sadness that will never lift and a hatred that was born from a mothers wrath.
Just a Girl