an angry tribute to my mother:

I have little idea what to write here, as I always have to watch what I write on this computer. Kind of kills anything personal I want to record.

Like my mother's outstanding helplessness and hypocracy. Why would I destroy someone else's family? Why would I want a relationship with someone that much older than myself? What caused all of this? Why don't I feel guilty?

It's funny, Mother Dearest, because I could've sworn in court you claimed I was a victim, that I did nothing wrong, that I was manipulated by a predator. And since when have I become a sociopath? Since when does this guilt not plague my concious? Since when would a simple mental disorder, or schism in childhood, constitute the reason I sob at night, the reason I still think of him everyday, the reason I write, the reason I put up with the label of the town's whore because of my honesty, the reason I still face these people everyday. It couldn't be genuwine feelings for the man whose habits mimic mine in relation to myself. Or the sense of responsibiliy I have for my actions. No. Something is indeed wrong with me.

Amazing how, if you're not understood, you're automatically crazy. Because every person is exactly the same, and everyone can understand eachother. People all have the same exact values, the same exact beliefs. It's why our whole wide world lives in peace and why all of our different cultures have the same exact laws and punishments.

Fuck you, you who thinks you know me. My mother thinks I think I know everything. Why? Because I know myself? Did I ever say what was right, what is wrong? The only thing I claim to be 'is', is myself. How would she know me? She who scolds and rejects any sort of human emotion, supresses human behavior and encourages facades and lies. I've never said I know something concretely, and I don't act it, either. It's just her interpretation of my defenses.

In which, I find her idea of happiness hilarious. She's a workaholic with a husband who bullies and belittles her. He's one of the most ugly people I've ever met. This is her idea of the life for me? A slave to economy and a man? Right. . .

I don't know why I was so surprised. I should be used to this form of abandonment. This habit of as soon as she doesn't know what to do, how to be, she throws me to someone else to raise. To devour. To digest. My resilence to the process is remarkable, and painful, and I cannot wait to rid myself of someone so present in my life and yet so unavailable.