I was naive enough to think that karma will give me a break, that the next person I would trust wouldn’t break my heart. This is my first explicit public acknowledgement: it hurt. It hurts. You sat there and watched someone beat me to a bloody pulp. You watched as I flinched, tried to defend myself, but ended up whimpering on that chair where my sense of self corroded. Afterwards, I cried on your shoulders. She said I was too self-immersed. You then said, I should learn to love myself because if I don’t, I’d keep on looking at everyone in a negative light.
And both of you complained I kept on contradicting myself.
Point by point, you dismissed all my concerns, all of it were wrong, WRONG. Was I imagining all of my problems, Mother? I thought you read theories. I thought you help people grow. I thought you help lives. I thought you know about power dynamics of relationships. The abuser and the abused shouldn’t be a far-fetched concept. The abusers work like that, remember. They make the abused feel the abusers didn’t do a goddamn thing and the abused is just a crazy fuck.
But then again, you will tell me (or silently agree with her anyway) that I’m making sweeping statements again. How about the sweeping numbers of those who left you? I can probably imagine problems, Mother, but I can’t imagine facts.
But don’t you dare challenge me to drop more facts. Just look at your records. You can’t accuse records of lying, for fuck’s sake–unless, of course, you don’t keep records.
You were right about one thing, though. I do bottle things up, sow anger even. One of us have to keep records. I don’t want to. I just kind of have to. Because if I don’t, I would end up crying on your shoulders again. Look at where that brought me: months of second-guessing all of my abilities and all the good parts in me. Months of hating myself because I was made to believe that I bring this misfortune on myself–because I see everyone in a negative light. Months of being paralyzed because, maybe, just maybe, these people who I gave my trust to were right about me.
I wish I did, you know, see everyone in a negative light. Maybe I wouldn’t have easily trusted you if I did. I just wish I learned enough from a former heart break to know that someone can be as bad to you as they have been good. Even if they don’t have an eye patch or a wooden leg. Especially if they don’t have an eye patch or a wooden leg.
Why can’t you wear those? It’d be easier for me to stop caring about you. And maybe if I stopped liking even the smallest part of you, maybe this voice that hovers and tells me I’m not good enough will finally go away.