I hate her because I hate me

As a teenager and a young adult, I often hated my mother. I still do, sometimes, hate my mother.

I hate my mother for the things that she isn’t and the things she never was. I hate my mother for never complimenting me when I wanted her to. I hate my mother for always saying the wrong thing.

But I don’t mean that I hate her, not really. What I mean is that I wish she was different. I wish she had been louder — I wish she had stood up for herself more.

I hate my mother for all the times she reacted to me with anger instead of concern, and for all the seeds of insecurity she planted inside of me. I hate my mother because she did the best she could. I hate my mother because it wasn’t good enough.

But I don’t mean that I hate her, not really. What I mean is I wish she had taught me how to stand up for myself and demand love, even if I don’t deserve it.

I hate my mother because she loved me and raised me to be a better version of her. I hate my mother because, even though she tried her best and gave it her all, I am still just like her.

I hate her because I hate me.

My eyes smile at me in the mirror, but I just see her smiling back at me.

I first started to see my mother in my reflection a few weeks ago. I saw her black hair (dyed), her dark eyes (sad), and her mouth (always smiling). I saw the black and blue bags under her eyes, and the fear that everything would always go wrong before she could stop it. I saw the fear that, one day, I too might leave her.

I shake my head to snap myself out of my thought loop, and phase back in to find myself standing next to an overflowing bathroom sink, the faucet on full blast.

I can’t remember why I turned the faucet on — I turn it off. The bathroom around me is messy at best. There are clothes and sluffed off tampon wrappers everywhere on the floor, and I feel that deep sinking feeling of disappointment.

I have failed.

I turn the faucet back on, and then off again. I drain the sink, I clean up the bathroom and turn on the shower in anticipation of my own cleaning.

The water warms up fast, but I don’t get in until the mirror has fogged all the way up. I haven’t looked at myself in the mirror since that day a few weeks ago, and I worry what would happen if I did. I worry about who I might see.

The water burns; I don’t care. I’m tired of not showering, I’m tired of letting my grief consume me, but as I submerge myself in the warmth of the shower, I can’t help but notice how visible my ribs are. They protrude at odd angles as if they are trying to force their way out of my body. I don’t blame them, I would leave me too, if I could.

I think of the little girl I used to be. I think of how much she loved living and breathing and moving, and how much she loved her mother. I wonder what she would say to me now, to this girl, to this woman who I have become. I wonder what should say when she learned that her mother is dead.

I crouch down low in the shower and pull my knees up into my chest. Mascara is surely running down my face, and I imagine I must look like a woman wasting away. I am surely not the girl who I once was. I am surely no longer so full of life. I am surely no longer a person with a living mother.

Things have changed.

The sentiment sits heavy within me and I’m pushed all the way down onto the floor. My knees push out, I pull my legs in.

There is no longer a relationship with my mother, she is dead. There is no longer a relationship with my father, we are estranged. There is no longer a relationship with my family, they have floated away.

There is no longer a relationship with people I’ve grown up with because things have changed.

I sit on that for a while, letting myself sink into what the words really mean for my life. I begin to cry, black rivlets leak out of my eyes with a speed that causes me to worry the whole world will drown. But I don’t cry for long, I never do. I haven’t cried in so long.

The shower is cooling off, but I don’t want to move or leave. Outside, on the bathroom counter, my phone rings. It’s my friend. We have dinner plans, but I’m not going. He has dinner plans.

My phone rings again, and I manage to drag myself up out of the shower and into a towel. I forward the call to voicemail and turn my phone completely off.

I want to be alone tonight.

In front of me is the mirror, but I avoid it. It’s bad enough being wracked with guilt about my mother, it’s worse to look her in the face.

“Knock KNOCK knock” There’s a knock on my door that startles me out of my daydream — I do my best to ignore it.

“Knock KNOCK know” I do an even better job ignoring. Then, the doorknob jiggles, and a moment to late, I realize I had never locked the door.

“You didn’t answer your phone, and now all the calls are going straight to voicemail, what is up?” My friend walks into the room, but I’m not there. I’m hiding, deep inside my bedroom closet where he won’t find me.

“Jane?” He’s searching for me, but I’m sure he’s going to look in the wrong spot.

“Jane?” I can hear his voice geting farther away, good. I’m huddled up on the top shelf, my naked body folded in on itself so that each one of my skin cells is touching another. It feels good in here, it feels dark.

I flashback to my time in the womb, a time that I don’t remember but that must have been to good to bear.

“Jane?” his voice is coming closer and I begin to panic that he might find me. He could find me. He’s been here before. He knows how I live, know what I like, knows what’s wrong with me, knows who I hate.

“Jane?” the light turns on in the closet and he’s, there, looking up at me.

“You missed our dinner reservation, Jane. Are you ok?”

I wish I could explain to him that his prescence is only making things worse, but that would be impossible. A trapdoor has closed over most of my throat, so only the smallest words and statements can get through. Things like “no” or “yes” or “i don’t know.”

“I don’t know” I gasp, and then he’s pulling me down, even though I don’t want him to do that.

“No, no, no, no” I say over and over, but he’s still pulling me down, my naked body flopping onto him like an old, dead, rotting salmon. I am like an old, dead, rotting salmon.

My bedroom is covered in clothes, but he finds a spot and lays me down. There’s been nothing but kindness from my friend these days. I can’t help but thinking he likes that I’m going through this tragedy of losing my mother and my family. I think he likes to have someone to save and pray about and care about. I think he’s being selfish, but I don’t want to tell him that.

“No” I say one more time. The warmth of his body feels close to me and I scoot closer to him, as if he could warm my heart too.

“Do you want me to leave?” He asks. My body screams no!, but I have to say yes.

“Yes,” I say. And so he leaves, even though I wanted him to say, even though I told him to leave.

The darkness around me is everywhere, and I worry it will consume me. I close my eyes and curl up into a ball.

By the time my apartment door opens again, I am already fast asleep.