Her voice is like a corkscrew, boring deeper into my psyche than I want it to, curving wickedly through my bare consciousness and scarring the barriers I’ve constructed.
I am not thinking straight.
I am not thinking crooked.
What mother would do this? What mother in her right mind would do this? I just woke up, Mom. I don’t really know what’s happening. Yet. I’ll get my brain in gear, as soon as you give me a chance. I just need a chance. I’m not your slave. Good morning to you too.
I don’t want to think such dark and deep thoughts at this hour in the morning. I don’t want to think them. I don’t want to remember them when I can’t write them down. Because I’ll forget and then those words of hers will stick in my head and I’ll let myself be hurt by her all over again.
Mom, don’t you get it?
I’m not giving you a face. My face just looks this way—when I haven’t made it to the bathroom to wash the reality away. The bags under my eyes are real, I call them night wrinkles. It means I was tossing and turning all night—again.
Why don’t you believe me? I couldn’t sleep. I can’t sleep. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m not like you at all.
You keep telling me I’m the same, even as you point out everything wrong with me. If I am the same as you, then why am I so different? What did I do? I’ve barely been up for an hour or a half-hour, already you have found fault with my existence.
“Comb your hair again, it looks like a-!”
“You should’ve done your homework last night?”
“Are you coughing? You can’t get sick now, there’s work to be done!”
“I need you to do-”
I should be worried, maybe troubled, but you’ve already done it.
You’ve morphed from Mom to Mother and I want nothing more to do with you.
I know the answer to the end of her sentence.
You need me to do everything, Mother, everything that you cannot possibly do. I can feel your eyes on me everywhere.
I feel as if I could scream, but I don’t.
“Dishes in the dishwasher, not in the sink!”
“Why didn’t you brush your teeth in the shower? You should do it first thing in the morning!”
But I don’t like to start my morning with the taste of minty goop. You know this, Mother.
“You’re wearing that?”
“What are you reading? That’s trash! How can you-!”
It’s only a mystery book, Mother, set in a world where I wish I could visit. A land where dreams come through and fairies are not little sparkly monsters. I liked that world, Mother, I need my book back.
“Stop reading and come help get this work done!”
I’ve been helping, Mother! I’ve been helping this whole time!
“If you don’t stop slacking off, I’ll-”
You’ll what? Hate me more? That’s impossible! Then again, it is you. I’ve been trying my very best. I’m just not working as fast as you want me to, because I’m not sure what I’m doing. I needed a break. That’s why I’m reading.
“Company will be here and this entire house is a mess! I have work projects to complete and your father has-”
So I’m playing you again? It feels like a character role-play.
I hate being mini-mom.
I want to just be me.
I want to be clumsy and clueless, with a little touch of insanity. I want to stack the plates cross-way in the dishwasher and color code the frozen food in the freezer. I want to be useful in ways that only I can be.
I want to be wanted.
Sometimes, I think you know this, Mother and then I think you don’t.
I’m standing here waiting for your next orders, because I care. I am hopelessly optimistic, because every time you push me away, I try harder to please you.
It’s taking everything away, I can’t bear it.
Just a little love, Mother. A moment where I can think that maybe you don’t hate me. I am not worthless or useless, I am just different. You almost convince of my complete hopelessness, but my heart refuses your answer.
I think I must be strange.
(c) S. Harricharan
a/n : Dredging up an old piece to share again. it’s been years since I’ve dabbled in this sort of First Person POV, I kind of miss it. Enjoy!