Everything doesn't happen for a reason

"Everything happens for a reason" the words reverberated off my spine, threatening to couple me as I spoke to my grandma, unaware of the traumas that plagued my small mind. I was closed off about my own experience as a child, afraid that if I opened up, my brother would be released into the sea of foster system never to be seen again.

The undaunted delivery each time shook me to my core, causing earthquakes beneath my skin as I broke apart. I would steal moments at events in the bathroom to let loose a floodgate of emotions. I felt so betrayed by life as it robbed me of all things good, try as I might I would find fragments of time where my past would leak through like and ink stain on parchment.

My life would forever be stained by the traumas imbued on me, a thought that coursed through my young frame, an all too familiar ebb and flow as air escaped my grasp. I would wish often for some tangible reason for it all, only to come up short. Nothing seemed as though it would be necessary for any positive outcome.

I feared more than anything of becoming as meek and beaten down as my doormat of a mother, fighting tooth and nail to retain any semblance of strength. I found childhood to be vaguely out of my grasp, the usual care free joy of youth was carefully calculated an attempt at a cover up.

I loved deeply, as I still do, pouring each beat into a palatable glass for my lovers, usually taken greedily, spilling as they devour. I would dig my nails in to the bone to keep myself at my mothers side, until it was no longer an option. I became a fountain of despair, crumpled like an old candy wrapper on my bedroom floor, screaming, begging for a easier life, begging for an attentive mother.

I would wait for entire days in front of my study wood front door, waiting for my mother to come, wait for her to love me. I would watch the sun fade into nothing behind the houses across the street, sobbing into my knees, allowing the snot and tears to run down my legs. I would be broken by her abandonment several times a month, only to rinse and repeat. It took me a long time in the loop for me to begin to hate her.

She never protected my brother and I from the steady hand of her husband, nor did she prevent herself from beating my brother. She would hide while we were victimized in a flurry of pounding fists and jutting thrusts of the hip. We lived in a constant state of upheaval, our lives in a constant tail spin from whatever the last trauma was.

Our last phone call was a pathetic one, all "No, mom"s and "I can't do it anymore, mom"s, but what can a child do, do release themselves from the stifling prison of abuse, from the tragedy of neglect, abandonment. I wish, at times I could say I miss her, but I think the reality is, I never will. And it's all the same, because when you boil it down to reality, she's been gone for a long time, despite her body continuing on.

She may have "tried her best" but frankly, that simply won't due, unfortunately, we all have to face that your best may not be enough one day. You may give somethin your all, only to the detriment of others, and in moments such as that, you have to let go.