This article might be triggering to some people if they’ve had negative experiences with maternal or mother figures.
Scrolling through Instagram, I came across a carousel post that read: “_____ issues, make the _____,” it talked about dads, friends, artists, painters, and dancers, but one in particular struck me: Mommy issues make the writers.
Whenever I feel angry about something, passionately angry, I get this overwhelming urge to write. I don’t know why; probably because it’s my coping mechanism. I write and write, and I claw at the paper, imagining it’s the person I’m writing about.
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I like to think that people assume I don’t have anything to say. They take and take and I stay quiet. But it’s only because I’m scared that what I might say will hurt them more, and that doesn’t resonate with the person I want to be. Shouldn’t that make me better? And yet, it’s underappreciated.
This past year I reached my peak. Or maybe it was my rock bottom.
I had to go through some really difficult moments with my mother. My sister and I had to juggle it all, most of the time the burden falling on me. And all I kept thinking about was: She should’ve been better than this. Yet, she didn’t choose this either, it just happened. Between trauma and lack of self worth, I’ve watched my mom destroy herself and her health little by little.
I hate to make this all about me. But aren’t I the one inheriting the feelings and troubles? Dealing with the repercussions and cleaning up the messes she’s too tired to clean up. I feel for her and what she’s been through; no one deserves to feel that unloved and scared, truly. But due to her experience I’ve learned that if I don’t get better for myself, those that did me wrong win.
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With all the cleaning and trying to keep up with taking care of her, and myself, and college, and working, all I keep thinking is “I don’t want to do this anymore, I want it all to just STOP!”
I burned out. I burned out and I wanted to scream—I still do. But I can’t because I’ll cause more hurt than how much I hurt. So I write. No one hears, but I write.
I write about how I want to leave and never look back. About quitting and not worrying about financial stuff, about not wanting to be responsible for all the administrative things a mother should be taking care of, but instead it’s just me at 22. I write and blame others because this wasn’t what I had planned.
Because sometimes I’m allowed to cry and vent about it. It’s valid. No, I’m not the older sister. No, I don’t want to have kids. I just want to be 22 for a little while longer. Is that too much to ask?
Not everything can be good all the time, but not everything can be bad either. It all has to meet in the middle in order to create balance in life. I just hope that all the bad that’s happened in the last few months can meet goodness in the end.
Lots of love,