It’s been a while since I’ve written about you.
Today, my thoughts are not entirely consumed by the pain that you have caused me. I’ve been given a chance to breathe. That chance has been made up of excruciating work. Because I never thought I could stand without you. Without you pulling my shoulders down with the weight of your past, pulling me down, while my own past does the same.
I never thought I would be allowed to breathe the fresh air that hadn’t gone through your body first. I was used to getting my survival needs through you.
But then I experienced that actually, my survival is dependent on letting you go. And that fresh air is actually much nicer when I can breathe it on my own, and not have you behind my back telling me how it should be done. Without your cruelty telling me I will never be good enough, looking at me with disgust as I walk into the room. I don’t believe that I am as worthless as you make me believe.
I called you today. Because gma told me too. Because I don’t want to have the guilt of not saying Happy Mother’s Day lead you to your death and then the guilt that you make me feel on a daily basis morphing into something I don’t know I could ever carry.
I don’t want to see you anymore. I don’t want the silence on your end of our phone conversation to haunt me for days afterward, wondering ‘why didn’t she say she’s sorry, or that she will try’ Or that she hears me. I don’t want to have the overwhelming guilt of thinking you may kill yourself guide me to reach out to you. Because when I don’t feel that guilt, I have allowed myself to feel joy.
I have come to realize that the world is full of good-hearted people, and ones who would say they are sorry when I tell them that they hurt me. They will respect me when I ask them to help themselves. To find that joy for themselves.
I don’t want you in my life. Because you are not well. When I called you today I wished the ringing would go to voicemail. I begged that I wouldn’t have to hear your voice.
I can’t hear you anymore. Your whimpers and soft voice on the other line made me think you were on some depressant. I wish you were. I wish at least something brought you joy. Something you could depend on and go back to every time you fucked someone else over; and hurt them. Maybe you wouldn’t be so miserable if you had a place to escape to.
But you can’t escape through my guilt any longer.
Continue going to Hong Kong.
Continue ignoring what I ask of you.
Continue telling me that you’re not depressed.
I just can’t be a part of it anymore.