I hate you

I don't think I ever let myself process everything you did.

Everyone always had an excuse for your behaviour. She had a hard life. She's doing her best. She's still your mother. (Actually, she's not. Found that out the hard way.)

I thought it was bullshit.

I didn't care.

I hated you.

I was three when I needed you, and you dropped me like a bad habit. You replaced me with a new model in my younger sibling and didn't look back once. Someone that was yours instead of borrowed— like I was. No, you had a baby now, and I was chopped liver.

I was six when I needed you, and you started to pit me against my younger sibling. Twisting my words to get fights to grow. Anger raised. Bitterness between children festered like gangrene. It's natural to fight between siblings at this age, and yet you made it worse every time.

I was ten when I needed you. Watched as you brought my older sister into the bedroom and talked her through her first period. But when it came my turn three years later, I thought I was dying.

"Go talk to your father."

So I sat in the bathtub waiting for him to come home. No pads. No explanation. No one to show me how to use a tampon. Just wads of toilet paper and the hope I wouldn't bleed through my clothes.

I did.

I hated you.

I hated the way you turned the children into opponents instead of siblings. I hated how you used the youngest as a bargaining chip until drugs became the only thing stronger than your grip. I hated watching my younger sister slowly becoming just like you. I hated watching my older sister learn to stand so tall that no one touched her because, somehow, Father was still there for her when she needed someone. (But not for me.) Typical middle child. The unseen one. Maybe that's why I'm full of rage and spite.

I hated you.

I hated that paint cans and bubble gum stopped being ordinary things.

That some things could be thrown at me and leave bruises or smear in my hair, leaving me standing in front of the mirror with scissors in hand, cutting away what was left until all I had was a bowl cut in the '90s.

Kids are cruel.

I hated you.

I hated the holidays. Not because they were bad— but because they were beautiful. Valentine's Day. Easter. Random Sundays. March Break. We'd wake up to little gifts and treats, as if Christmas arrived early—magic-filled mornings. Thoughtful gifts. Like you didn't come into my room the night before and slap me because the lamp was broken and was somehow my fault.

I didn't know the term love bombing until now.

I just thought that you finally decided to love me. You hadn't.

I hated you.

I hated you enough to wish terrible things would happen to you. I hated you enough to imagine a world where you no longer existed. I hated you enough that I wanted you dead. I wanted you to feel everything you ever made me feel.

Now that day may actually come, and I'm unsure. It's been 15 years since I last spoke to you. All I can think is...

I don't hate you.

Not even a little.

I just wish I had been enough for you to love me.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for taking the time to read this. Confessions are hard for me. If you like what you read, feel free to: