Something you have to forgive someone for
WARNING: CONTAINS EXPLICIT LANGUAGE
I’m sorry I’m a day or so late in this. I’ve been wrecking my brain thinking of who I need to write about, and it has been especially hard considering I’m still mostly stuck in bed with a cold. And honestly, this is so fucking difficult.
I have to forgive my mother for doing what she did, cheating on my father and dismembering what was my core, my family. There’s always more to things than what words say about them. I bet when you read that first sentence of this paragraph you thought: “Bitch, how could she do that?” or something of the like. To be honest, so do I. Did. Do… Fuck.
This one is going to be too clean in language so if you don’t want to see me curse turn away now. I should have learned to curse at an earlier age. It’s liberating. When used correctly… I don’t always do that. My apologies.
So to narrow it down so I don’t end up writing a book here:
I need to forgive my mother for letting my last family memory be what it is and not something warm and cute and loving. I mean… how much is it to ask to have one good moment before you go fuck everything up? Well, in that department I guess she did since she was fucking the guy when we were still having good memories. I guess it was a smoke screen. I don’t know. I don’t want to know.
But this one was better than nothing I guess.
Last family memories… Family of four — an index, not a category or chapter or subplot. I was at my father’s workplace at the university; we were raising money for something. My father was so proud of me, for being just fourteen and spending the day taking part in international university lectures, or just being me but it just felt like it, like he was really really proud of being my father. I remember every minute of those lectures. I remember every minute I spent in the office cleaning things up or putting things in new order. I remember what the room looked like, where the whiteboard was, where my father’s desk was and what kind of books there were on the shelf. I remember having tea at the university cafeteria and filling out the paper I needed for school, my father handing me the money. I remember making some files for the university, some Word documents. I remember his co-workers.
My sister and my mother came over. My mother had picked my sister up from school and was coming over to get us and go home. They both came over to the office room and me and my sister drew on the whiteboard with some markers. My mother and my sister drew a family portrait of us on the whiteboard and my mother wrote something funny about –insert father’s name here- and his wife and kids having been over and that we wished everyone a good weekend. I went to the big garden to get an oak leaf for a biology collection, and the last thing I remember of us together, a good memory, is us sitting in the car driving away from the university, me looking at the maple leaf and Mom and Dad holding hands and my sister talking about something I wasn’t really paying attention to.
Sometimes I think it was planned. That she had planned to have just one more good moment before she would let things fall apart. A week from that we were sat down and told of the divorce, which is where my lovely life started.
I need to forgive her for everything that followed. The lies, the sleepless nights, the fucked-up therapists, the manipulation, the having-to-listen-to-your-Mom-and-her-new-boyfriend-fuck-like-rabbits, the mechanical insertion of new family members…
What the fuck am I going to do with the hate that had built up for every time she hurt me when in the end, she has earned my forgiveness with every minute she has spent with me years later?
I know everything she did is a big part of the fucking lunatic that I have become.
But I’m stronger. And I am bigger than everything that happened and I am above that.
At least I have a lot to write about and at least I have a good basis for understanding someone who has been hurt cause boy, have I been hurt.