Mother

I am sad.

I have been trying to get out of my mother's tight grip for so long that I’ve forgotten what it’s all about. I’ve spent such a large chunk of my life coming up with little white lies and covering up stories of various sorts only to avoid conflict.

She’s always been the one who drew up conclusions and came up with verdicts.

I was never allowed to go anywhere. When there was a class night out, I was the one who stayed at home. When a bunch of friends from school went to the coast, I was the one who didn’t. When there was a concert I really wanted to be at, it was me who stayed in my room, rewinding the tapes.

She is the most passive-aggressive being in this galaxy.

You wouldn’t believe me, since she’d be all sweet and nice with you, but I know what happens once we’re both back home. First she’ll drop in a line that’ll make you question your wording. Then your decision. And then the outcome thereof. She’ll plant the tiny seed of doubt into everything you do. She’ll say it’s your decision and you know best, but you’ll just know she doesn’t really mean it.

She’s always been there for me because she’s my mother. But at the same time she’s never been there for me for the same reason.

I’m moving two continents away and instead of using the time left the best we can, she’ll ruin it (and keep ruining it by bringing it up all over again) until we’re cat-and-mouse all over each other and I’ll be bummed out and she’ll be sad and it’ll all go to hell until I’m 13 thousand kilometres away and she realizes what she’s done.

And it’ll be my fault. I chose wrong, I left her, I’m the bad guy. And I will feel bad. That's what she's done to me. She'll be right and I'll be wrong once again. And she'll be proud she's managed to screw me in the head once again. That's what mothers do.

And I’ll be sad because she still won’t get the point.