My Moms Consequence

I never considered before, what was going on with my mom when I was a kid. She had always been a little on the harsh side with me, but always seemed to dote on my brothers. I wouldn’t say that she hated me, but I would say that I was absolutely not her favorite child. My mere existence seemed to irritate her to no end.

Never once had I considered that maybe she was suffering from mental illness and my hyper, no-chill, overly dramatic self couldn’t stop being a nuisance long enough to realize that she was struggling with her own existence, let alone mine.

Her own childhood was terrible, from what she told me over the years. She was a victim of extensive abuse, at the hands of her parents, friends, and other family members. It was as though everyone in her life wanted to hurt her in one way or another.

Living with that kind of pain in your life for so long, with no one who could or would take the time to understand had to be exhausting. Then you add in two boys and a crazy little girl who doesn’t listen to anyone, ever. I am surprised that I lived.

I did live, not for a lack of others around me trying to take me down like they did my mom. The amount of struggle and fight that I went through, because of her bad choices, was insane. Every new husband she brought home was a new struggle, a new battle for me to fight.

So, I continued to fight... Fight them, fight her, fight everyone because that was the only way that I could make it out. I had to fight my way out just to live, just to breathe because no one around me wanted to see me succeed. My closest friends wanted to watch my downfall…

Here I am, still continuing to fight, because I am not alone anymore. Now I fight for my kids because it’s not just me anymore. I fight for my kids like no one ever fought for me. Not my father, not my mother, or my brothers. No one ever fought for me…

I refuse to be like her. So exhausted with my own existence that I make my kid’s existence even more miserable. As I said, she had no issues with my brothers, just me. I have never worked out the real reason that she disliked me so much, though I have my theories. Maybe I was just too much.

Maybe I was a reminder of her own inadequacies. Maybe she believed that as I grew older, I was competition. Or maybe I was just a reminder of her own mistakes, the way she used people for her own personal gain and left them in the end.

She never could stick around long enough to see the consequences of her own actions play out. Except for me, I was a walking consequence. I was the product of her affair. I was the product of her lies and disloyalty. I was the result of her anger, and she had to raise me.

I was the result of her bad decisions, her failed choices, the sum of all her mistakes of her youth, rolled into one willful, obnoxious, and bratty child. That couldn't have been an easy task to undertake, raising your own mistake.

I can't say that I blame her for disliking me so much, I didn't exactly make it easy for her to love me. But I can blame her for allowing me to be hurt over and over again by her new bad choices as if it would make up for her original ones.