We missed the bus. We missed the school bus on accident, we were distracted by the TV in the living room and we accidentally missed the bus. We were kids, my brother and I. We were small, we were still both going to elementary school. We accidentally missed the bus, and she went crazy and beat us with the wooden spoon. We had to stand in the kitchen while she beat us with the spoon. Then she took us to school and dropped off. It was silent. Nobody was talking. Nobody ever talked about it again. It was like it never happened.

No it was talked about one time. When we got home. Who started the conversation? I can't remember. She was sad, she was upset. She regretted it? She described how it felt for her. She was sad about it. She said she dropped us off, and.. she said other things. I can't remember. But she was sad about it. I can't remember what I said to her. I can't remember if I said anything. Was she sorry? I don't think she ever said sorry. She was just sad about it.

I am sure she would say now, that she doesn't remember it. So that it's like it never happened.

I'm not an angry one. I'm just me. Whatever the hell that even means anymore. Just need to write (well type) all this down. This is probably what a blog is actually supposed to be for.

This upcoming therapy session on Monday I have to do a history thing with the therapist. I thought I'd give it some practice, and I noticed something. It's about our mother so maybe that's part of why I felt compelled to put in my blog section.

I have almost no memories of my mother through most of my childhood, and the handful that I do have are mostly bad.

So yes, the first memory I have of her, I was maybe 4 or 5, and it was at the kitchen table when she called me a liar for saying that my father was inappropriate with me, told me to never tell anyone those "lies" again and told me that it would be all my fault if my father went to jail.

I reach around in my mind for more memories of her, from when I was a kid.

I get another one where I'm a bit older, I'm about 4 feet tall, no idea on age. We're standing in the kitchen, and she says something that I find hard to believe. To express my disbelief I jokingly call her a liar. She backhands me out of nowhere and tells me in an angry, matter of fact tone to never call her a liar. I'm standing there in silence and I think shock. And that's the end of that memory.

I search my mind for some more memories of her when I was a kid. Granted I have very few memories from my childhood as it is, but if I spend the time and effort, I start getting some of my father, some not-bad memories of him. Memories when he acted like my best friend.

But I come up almost empty-handed when grasping for memories of her. It's almost like she didn't exist. Most of the memories I can find at all take place at school, or out in the woods with my little brother.

I never realized it until trying to actually do this, but yeah, it's like she didn't really exist until I was about 12/13.

And when she does come into the picture, there is like a.. sudden strong bond out of nowhere with no transitional period. Suddenly I'm like her personal therapist and close friend. But it's all about her. How distressed and sad she is about her messed up marriage, and stressful the divorce thing is for her. How badly my father has treated her. I feel protective of her and want to take care of her. I'm worried about her. But what's so weird is that in my memories this comes out of nowhere, after this feeling like she didn't like me or want anything to do with me for the rest of me previous life.

I don't understand how it went from feeling like she wanted nothing to do with me, to feeling like she considers me so close and trustworthy to be telling me all of these intense, personal details about her marriage to my father and how it all fell apart.

I have watched the home videos that were mostly recorded by my father during my childhood years. In all of those videos, whenever my mother and I both present, it always seems to be the same, like she just can't stand my existence.

There is one video where myself and other children are hitting a pinata. My mother is muttering into the camera that I am cheating and sounds like she's just fed up with me. In a video where I am much younger, I'm singing to my baby brother. She threatens that I'll have to go to bed if I can't get the words right (I'm about 3.5-4 years old). There's not a single video to my knowledge of my mother and I ever doing -anything- together.

When I try to really think about this sort of thing, I feel like I am vomiting inside of myself.

I love that I'm relegated to a blog. Out of the way where nobody sees it, but that's my existence, so whatever.

For the record she only has it half right. No, I don't "hate" her mother. I don't "hate" anyone. That's about as far her pseudo-psychology performance came to hitting the mark.

I just see things the way they really are. I'm not some pathetic, fragile flower who can't handle actual emotions, and I'm not so ###$ up in the head that I'm going to put some crazy coward on a pedestal and slit my mental wrists to protect them from their inability to face their own bloody demons.

I am also not some rabid animal smashing things and foaming at the mouth. I know who IS but that's another story.

I respond to threats. I guess that HAS to be my "job" because nobody else even seems capable of RECOGNIZING threats in the first place.

I'm not angry ALL the time. I'm just not afraid to actually BE angry when it's APPROPRIATE. So I get punished by being portrayed as some misunderstood crazy person that needs to be mentally locked in the closet.

Who is ACTUALLY crazy if the others can't get mad or refuse to get mad, when anger is a totally NORMAL and INSTINCTIVE part of life, and then whoever actually gets angry is deemed to be crazy and needs to be locked in a closet? Uh HELLO.

I can think of SO MANY times when we SHOULD have been furious as ###$. When we SHOULD have held people - and YES like HER MOTHER oh god I said it someone call the ambulance - accountable for their cowardly, selfish #######4.

But NOOOOOOO couldn't have that, heaven forbid, the planet might have exploded. Instead they just pretend like everything is fine even when it's really NOT fine at all. But hey that's okay, just pass that nasty side dish over here, I'll hold onto it for everyone, and then you can lock me in the closet.

I don't blame the others, though. Because I actually *GASP* acknowledge $#%^ that has happened, I know how it got like this.

They can say whatever they want, I don't give a ###$. I'll still be here waiting when the others finally grow some balls.

The earliest memory I have of her took place at the kitchen table. We had moved to the new house, yet I wasn't in school. I must have been 4 or 5. This is the only memory I have of that time, from being so young, from before I was 9 or so. I don't know why this memory stuck, what makes it so significant that it's the only piece my mind kept. Well I do know, but then in the greater scheme of things, I don't. I don't know what I'm supposed to do with it.

It was night, not sure of the hour, but the house was dark. Everything felt dark. The only lighting was the dim yellow glow from the dining room light fixture. My mother sat across the table from me. I sat across from her, in a chair, and the table was huge. I was very small. She was teary-eyed, choked up. Her voice cracked high a couple times when she spoke. She had to wipe her eyes. She sniffled a bit. Something was very, very wrong, but what. Why was I sitting there. How did I get there. What was going on.

She explained to me that I had lied to people. I had lied to people and now my father might go to jail because of the lies I told people. I didn't know what she was talking about, but I also wasn't used to seeing her like this. On one hand I was so confused, but on the other hand I dared not argue. She kept explaining. I told some people that my father cuddled with me naked at night. That was the lie. And because I told this lie, some people - I don't know who she was talking about - were asking my father some questions. He might go to jail. And if he goes to jail, it's all my fault, because I told those lies.

In the moment I don't know if I lied or not. I don't remember saying those things. I don't know what's going on. But I just feel terribly guilty and scared. I've done something horrible but I don't understand.

She looks at me with red eyes and sniffles, she asks, "Do you want your dad to go to jail?"

At this point I broke down sobbing. Of course I don't want him to go to jail. I love my dad. I didn't mean to do whatever bad thing I've done. My entire body feels shaken down with dread. What have I done? What if my dad goes to jail and it's all my fault? I shake my head no, but I can't talk.

She tells me that I must never tell lies like that again, or my dad could go to jail. I think I nodded at her, I don't know. I was so terrified. She tells me to go to my room.

The memory ends.

And THAT is why I am so ######6 pissed. Because I remember THAT. Everyone else forgot. I am sure my mother conveniently forgot. ANYTHING that could EVER be HER fault in ANY way ALWAYS just gets conveniently forgotten. She's always so obsessed with maintaining her innocence that sometimes it's outright pathetic and laughable.

She went with us to see that therapist, and whatever way she had to spin the narrative, anyone could tell that it never even OCCURRED to her that she had ANY responsibility for ANYTHING.

"Yes she and her father were very close until about age 9, and then blah blah blah and that's when I noticed the change in her, that's when she started isolating herself."

Well where the ###$ were YOU? So she loses the closeness with her father and then she had nobody, what a sad story. LOL. The mother figure in the story just isn't even there. She must have been locked up in a closet for 10 years. Yes it's ALL his fault. And if anything bad happened, well rest assured she had NO idea about it. She couldn't have done anything because she was just so utterly clueless.

Cowardly bitch. You get a call from the CPS and you don't ask your child for the truth. You TELL your child that they're lying. You don't care at all about whether or not your child is being abused. All you care about is not having to deal with it.

And as I grew older and into my teens, she just gave herself away more and more.

On one hand she tells me the story of how when I was a toddler, she found bruises on me. She threatened to leave him if he didn't stop.
Yet skip forward a few conversations...

[ Continued ]