i think. there’s more than one kind of unconditional love. like it’s not all ignoring peoples flaws and staying by someone’s side forever, it’s also like
you hurt me and made me feel awful sometimes, and it’s a good thing we aren’t friends anymore. but i hope you changed and got better, and you were important to me at some point, and i love you
we drifted apart and haven’t spoken properly in years, but i still think of you sometimes and i hope you’re doing well, and i love you
you were a relative stranger i spoke to a few times on the train and while eventually we both stopped needing public transport, i wish you the best in getting wherever you’re going, and i love you
you stopped talking to me one day and never really explained why, and i just had to move on from that even though i saw you every day, and i still love you
sometimes it’s not unconditional because you’re with someone forever, but because you’re not
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its very strange losing a friend because there are moments of clarity and moments of overwhelming grief and moments of a very unplaceable pain and sorrow. it dredges up memories of friends you may have lost before or the people who left this world sooner rather than later. and you just sort of ache for them and for their pain… what they must have felt to want to leave so suddenly. even if you hadn’t spoken in a while, or if you spoke every day, or if you’d promised to speak but always forgotten. your heart just sort of longs for them. for the ability to do so.. and it just sort of comes up empty.
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“At least you have a mother” is something that has been said to me more times than I would care to count, and is something I’ve been thinking on a lot recently.
I think an absent mother would have been better than what I had. To the outside world we were a perfectly imperfect family. We went to church, we hosted dinners, were polite got good grades and everything seemed normal. But it wasn’t. I didn’t really have a mother, or maybe I did once but not that I remember. I had a person who gave birth to me and hated me, except for once a year when we would take a trip just us and it would be great for two days.
I witnessed what a mother was, with how she was with my brother. I saw what love and care and affection without expectation was when I saw their relationship, but I didn’t get that. I got the other side of her. The abusive alcoholic. And I don’t think I’ll ever really recover from that fully. I don’t think that I’ll ever be able to get rid of the tiny voice inside my head that asks what I did wrong to make her do those things. Nothing, I was a child. I know that but the voice in my head doesn’t.
Mother’s Day has ben something that weighed heavy on me always, the pretending so that everything looked normal to everyone else. So that no one saw what she was really like. I’d get her cards and gifts because it wasn’t worth it if I didn’t. Playing nice and playing pretend and dying inside. Watching everyone else showcase their love, talk about wonderful memories and how amazing their mums are, and I remember the year that my Dad was sick and in hospital so couldn’t buy me a gift for her like he did every year, because I was too young and didn’t have money. And I made her a card, used her favourite colours and flowers. I made her toast and coffee and my brother attempted orange juice and we took it to her in bed and she seemed happy. It seemed good. Until my brother went to play and she screamed at me because we hadn’t gotten her gifts, or bought cards. Told me I was irresponsible and ungrateful and a terrible daughter. I’lll leave the rest of that story to the imagination.
So Mother’s Day isn’t a good day for me. Never has been. This year will be my first Mother’s Day since I went no contact, and it’s weird and freeing too, not to have the obligations. But it’s another change, and another thing I have to deal with. Another thing that hurts. All the time. The pretending hasn’t stopped with the obligations, I’ll still smile at my friends lovely plans and stories and not flinch when they talk about their mums, pretend every word isn’t a dagger into an open festering wound. Smile, pretend to everyone else that everything is normal. Just like I’ve always done.
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