My Wandering Mind

Mom

I hate my mom.
I hate how I grew up.
I used to be able to show my emotions.
That is, until my mom taught me not.
She never showed us how she felt.
She'd always keep to herself,
So no one ever knew the problems she faced on her own.
They never knew she was sad.
They never knew she was slowly drowning herself in her emotions.
She'd always hide her sorrow behind a transparent mask she'd crafted from watching her mother.

One day, after watching her for so long I'd decided to craft one of my own.
If I had my own I'd be a better person.
I grew up thinking you had to answer certain questions with:
"I'm fine.
I'm okay."
Even if you weren't.
Now, I'm stuck with those habits I'd developed from my mom.
People stopped asking how I felt.
They stopped asking if I was okay.
That was the day I'd tried to take the mask off.
But it was etched into my skin.
I couldn't remove it.
The mask I'd crafted when I was 7 seemed to force all of my sadness into hiding.
All of my guilt.
All of my emotions.

It was slowly consuming me.

And I could do nothing but watch.
I watched as my grandma died quietly in her sleep. 🕇
I watched as my brother faced my own fear and faced the consequences. 🕇
I watched as the doctor told me the news about my mother and I.
She was dying of cancer as I showed the symptoms.
I watched as each of my friends betrayed and ran from me in fear.
They couldn't see how I felt anymore.
They couldn't see my depression or anxiety.
They couldn't see how I was slowly drowning myself.
Eventually, my mother left and I had to take her place.

My best friend walked up to me and called me a soulless monster today.

Maybe I am.

The one thing I'm scared of is having to watch as my future child looks back at me the same way I did my mom before I made my mask.
And it'll start all over again.