Hate and love are the two most powerful words in the world, and many people do not know the true meaning of them but throw them around like it is nothing.
I know the meaning of hate, and it hurts, not just a teenage heartbreak hurt, not just a scrape on the knee hurt, but deep inside a pain that runs through your veins like a constant fish up stream.
When I was younger I was very close with my mother. I confided in her, I turned to her for advice, and I gave her a part of my heart that I thought she would cherish forever. When my parents got divorced, I took it very hard. My mother moved out of the house, but I went with her. I held her hand when she needed guidance, and wiped her tears when she cried, I was only 10.
As I got older, I turned to her even more, but bashed heads with her too, just like any teenager does. I lived with my dad half of the time, but my mom moved around a lot. We moved five times in four years, and it was difficult. I still turned to her when I needed to cry, or needed a hug, or just needed someone to talk to.
However, the older I got, the more we bashed heads, and the more I started to form this little flame of hate deep inside. As a teenage girl, trying hard to fit in with my peers, it hurt more then ever to be called fat, or be told I should diet, by my own flesh and blood.
It got worse and worse, soon we began fighting all the time. She would make me cry, and then I would apologize as if I had done something wrong. Looking back now this never ending cycle makes me sick to my stomach.
When I was 15, the beginning of the end happened. She took my cell phone, without my permission. We got into a huge fight, and when she got home from work, she gave me the silent treatment. Like a young child she would not speak to me, until later that night, while I sat at the computer talking to my friends. She told me I had to pack my things and go live with my father. At the time I wasn’t hurt, I was relieved.
It didn’t occur to me how much her kicking me out would hurt. She didn’t speak to me until four weeks later, than asked like a young child again, why I hadn’t called her. It felt like that little piece of my heart I had given her, she had taken it, and thrown it on the ground. I still feel that way sometimes.
Many people don’t know this feeling. I know what it’s like to lose everything, and have my own mother give me nothing but her tears, telling me she knows what it’s like.
I didn’t talk to her for 2 ½ years, from the ages of 16 until 18, the most important years of a teenage girls life.
I am now 18, getting ready to graduate and recently I had my last straw with my ex-mother. I tried to care, again. I met up with her, and we talked. I hoped that maybe she had changed. She fed me her lies, but this time I didn’t eat them up, I was cautious, like a child crossing the street without someone holding their hand.
Once again she took that little piece of my heart, and stomped on it. When I was online she signed onto my sisters screen name and she read my info on AOL Instant Messenger, which said thank you to my father and sisters for always being there for me. She then sent me a message saying how she had never turned her back on me. In my eyes that’s all she had done.
She is no longer a part of my life. I didn’t ask her to come to my graduation. She won’t be at my wedding if I get married, or know her grandchildren’s name. I probably won’t even attend her funeral, because to me she’s already dead.
I believe in hate. Not the word, or strongly disliking someone but, hate, the actual feeling. The feeling you get when you can’t call your own mother your mom.
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