My fucking Mother

      My mom dug up this deep-rooted hate varyingly. It was suggested as her manic side procuring itself when she didn’t take her medication. (Professionals like to use the word “refused.” Though it never feels accurate enough.) My dad always spoke of it spitefully, but I really think it was fearfully. I’m not sure if the stories I heard are always as true as they’re said, but I know that most of it did happen.
      Sometimes I swallow my dads fear and it becomes frothy in my throat. My heart beat hollows immediately instead of speeding up first like it does in my normal episodes. I won’t want to talk to my mom for large periods of time. A lot of it has to do with her husband. He’s loud and frightening, a drunk and a drug-addict. He works hard, he does a lot for my mom and sister, but he scares me.
      Mostly I hate being around them when they fight. Fuck knows I’ve had so many people screaming around me that I should be used to it by now, but it never clicked. It always brought back this strange buzzing noise. This pain. This need to go smoke or drink. It must be a common feeling, because I see so many other people react the same way to the situation.
      When it comes to my mom, it’s a lose/lose thing. It sounds bad. It is bad. Though this is probably where I draw the most sympathy. I don’t know the details of everything but I know enough. Mental illness flies free on her side of the family, she got it from her mother and so on. It’s almost funny; the best way I can relate to her is a way that neither of us can talk to each other about. I know it’s not just some hereditary chemical in my brain and has to do with my flaky upbringing but we’re so very alike this way.
      I can tell she doesn’t want to believe the stories of when I was taken away for psychological testing. She doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with me. A good and bad feeling comes with that. All those years I spent in my mind wasting away in some barren dust-filled corner really got to me. Prescribed drugs could be a benefit. I think she’s accepted it but won’t say anything. Our silence is our best relationship, and not just because it’s the quietest.
      I like to compliment her hair whenever I can. It’s really beautiful. I don’t know when I’ll have a chance to next because I’m afraid of her right now. I know it’ll pass, and I know it’ll come back. I want to know when the cycle will end because I worry about death on her trail. It will soon find my crooked path when she passes, eyes wide and truly honest.