My mother was like a shattered vase someone tried glueing back together blindfolded. Imagine a vase that is cracked, pieces glued in the wrong place; trying to hold water let alone flowers. Whatever she was filled with leaked on to us. She chose to fill herself up with anger, hate, and sickness; and it ran down her crevices and flooded our childhood.
I was born a sponge to soak up your disease. I was born a mask, a disguise to prove to the world you were not ill.
You filled your bucket with dirty water, emotions that were bitter on your tongue; knowing your sponge would soak it up to make room for more.
We are not born broken. Time wore us down, eroded at our core until it shaped us; or broke us. Did I break, mother?
I did. Several times. But something in me rose; got back up only to get knocked down again, wrung out like a dirty sponge.
Living in your shadow was like getting lost in a swamp, sinking in the mud. The stench of death, monsters lurking in the darkness. To leave that swamp was to leave you; alone. To clean up your own mess. I needed you, even if I was nothing more than a projection of your hate, I needed to believe that I was once a daughter; nothing more.
I am grown now, no longer living in the fantasy you spun; unable to withdraw into my own fantasy. There is no escaping a truth; I was a borderline’s daughter.
Lost in you I couldn’t see the forest for the trees. Now, I realize the whole forest is on fire; the world is filled with broken people waiting for someone to bring a drop of water.
I can be a drop of water or a spark that continues the cycle and burns new growth.
Know this, I did not leave you out of hate. I left because I will not pass your legacy down to my own kids. I can’t be a borderlines daughter and a whole mother; they deserve all of me, the best parts I have to offer.