My Mom Hated Me

Growing up I was an abused child who wanted nothing more than to break free of the horrible torture that was imposed on me every day of my childhood. My mother hated me, and she was not shy in saying so. She would belittle me as if it gave her some kind of sick pleasure in destroying my fragile, developing ego. Naturally, I would grow up to be a person who didn’t have any ambition or goals for the future. This was because I focused all of my energy on the thought of getting away. I just wanted to be free, somewhere, anywhere; it didn’t matter to me.

I am not sure exactly when my mother decided that she hated me, but it was definitely apparent in all of her actions. She would blame me for anything that happened in her life that prevented her from getting what she wanted. My father left us when I was only two years old. My mother always spoke ill of him and told me that I was better off not knowing who he was. For some reason I think he would have stayed if it wasn’t for the responsibility of taking care of me and I think that my mother knew that as well.

My childhood years were occupied mainly by making excuses for the numerous injuries that my mother forced upon me every day because some part of me still cared about my mother, and I never wanted her to be in trouble, or maybe perhaps more logically, I was too scared.

In my teenage years, most of my time was spent in school, and after I left there I would come home to a strung out mother that would be ranting and raving about dishes that needed to be done and telling me about how I was her biggest mistake, and that I was nothing but a lazy, hopeless loser, which I knew wasn’t true, but when you are a child the thoughts just run through your head over and over like a bad dream that you cannot wake up from. During that time, I had to find a way to break out. She would never let me leave the house unless it was to go to school, so I would leave at seven every morning and not return until midnight or later because I couldn’t face the beatings anymore. I began to heavily use drugs and try to escape to a place without pain and fear. Unfortunately, I knew that when I did come home, that I was really in for it. I remember that when my mother was angry her normal hazel eyes would turn into a tornado of green fury. A few of ...

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...d to come and get me. At that time, the charges were dropped due to insufficient evidence and her past domestic violence disputes. The courts then told her that she had to sign me over to the care of the state. I was adopted by a nice Christian children’s home. I stayed with a polite family who took care of me till my senior year.

My mother never addressed her problems. She thinks that everything is fine and dandy to this very day; however, my bruised inner ego is still suffering and she thinks that I have forgotten. I will never forget these horrendous acts upon which I suffered because of her inadequacies.

Occasionally I speak to my mother, only because I decided to be the better person. Some days I wish that I hadn’t but I know that in the end, she will know that I made it. I got away and I am free.

This experience has taught me that although I could not choose my mother, that I could choose to try to have a wonderful life that is free of negative thoughts and self destructive behavior. I have a new outlook on life. I now know that my inner strength saved me from giving up on myself. Maybe one day, she will ask for forgiveness, but if she does not I will still be smiling.