“I’m Mother’s therapy”

She was a victim. She was abused. I am her saviour.

I’m what’s at the end of the cycle of abuse that people speak about; part of the circle. I’m the therapy for everything she went through at the hands of her father so many years ago.

How can I feel bad about that? How can I begrudge her that? How can I explain how it makes me feel when I can barely even speak yet?

My mother is in pain and I am her relief.

My mother doesn’t know that what she’s doing is wrong. My mother doesn’t know that I’ll remember every single second of every single time.

My mother doesn’t know.

I try to forget; I scream at night. Every night. Until I’m at an age where I forget why I started screaming in the first place.

I remember to forget.

My dreams try to remind me, try to shout it at me while I scream at them without knowing why. Sometimes I forget to forget. The dreams come so close that they stay in my waking hours and I pretend to misunderstand.

I feel it physically.

I try to cut that feeling from myself. Carve at the pieces which feel this sensation of ‘past’ the elusive past. The elusive ‘it can’t hurt you now’ past.

I feel it in my chest. I slice it away. My stomach turns. I cut away at the constant churning. My arms, my poor arms, most often felt afraid and turned cold.

How were they to know that their fear would result in their near destruction?

I’m Mother’s therapy. How can I feel bad about that?

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