As of today, my mother has been dead for three years now.
Having written about what she did to, and about, my child over the last six months of her life, and then touching on the medical neglect that I experienced as a child (as well as the emotional abuse, having had it screamed in my face when I was a young elementary school student that she wished she had aborted me, that she wished I had never been born, that she hated me, that she didn’t like me, that “no matter how hard I tried I would always be bad”… the list goes on), I’m not sad that she’s gone. I don’t miss her at all. I’ve made it clear to everyone that knows me in person that I do not want to be asked about her and that I don’t want to talk about her unless I have to. I don’t have to deal with her again. I don’t have to talk to her again, either…
She made me choose between her and my child, and the decision was almost pathetically easy.
