My mother said she wanted to die because of me. Her actual words were “you’re the reason I want God to take me home early.” On that hot summer day in July of 2010, I didn’t know how to process her statement. We were sitting at a bus stop waiting for the next bus to arrive to take us home. We were within walking distance from our apartments and I started complaining about how if we walked home we would be there by time the bus showed up. The sun was beating on us to the point of exertion. Not only that, but we had just finished eating so we were being weighed down by our full stomachs. On top of all that my mother’s poor joints, which we would later find out was Arthritis, wouldn’t permit her to walk distances without tiring out quickly. When I kept persisting that we should just go ahead and walk home, she told me to just go ahead without her. She knew that my
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You either become numb or hypersensitive to abuse. Coming from an abusive childhood only to enter into an abusive marriage, the only way a person could survive was to shut off emotionally. That’s exactly what my mother did.
As for me, I’m somewhere in between numb and hypersensitive. Sometimes I feel as if I’ve successfully cut off all my emotions, only to fall apart after the tiniest blow to my feelings.
I am my mother’s daughter. I have her big brown eyes and her deep brown skin. I have her ability to publicly mask the pain only to unravel once behind closed doors. My tears look like my mother’s tears. Our tears are drenched with the pain and burden of enduring years of abuse. However, my mother never dried her tears. She just learned to live with the tears as they decorated her face as if they were a reminder of all the suffering she’s been through. She couldn’t help me dry my tears. She didn’t know how to. Especially not the ones she caused. I can’t stand to let the pain burn my eyes anymore. I can’t have the misery stain my face
You either become numb or hypersensitive to abuse. Coming from an abusive childhood only to enter into an abusive marriage, the only way a person could survive was to shut off emotionally. That’s exactly what my mother did.
As for me, I’m somewhere in between numb and hypersensitive. Sometimes I feel as if I’ve successfully cut off all my emotions, only to fall apart after the tiniest blow to my feelings.
I am my mother’s daughter. I have her big brown eyes and her deep brown skin. I have her ability to publicly mask the pain only to unravel once behind closed doors. My tears look like my mother’s tears. Our tears are drenched with the pain and burden of enduring years of abuse. However, my mother never dried her tears. She just learned to live with the tears as they decorated her face as if they were a reminder of all the suffering she’s been through. She couldn’t help me dry my tears. She didn’t know how to. Especially not the ones she caused. I can’t stand to let the pain burn my eyes anymore. I can’t have the misery stain my face