/lit/ - Literature

My mom has a very good spirit and is inclined to see the light in things and help those around her before herself but as paradoxical as life is she is simulatenously of a family of horrifically abusive and neglectful people. It's in those crystal clear moments of malaise to addiction to anger to terror that I see these demons inside of her. A very pretty face behind a sad window; sky-blue eyes, once owned by a little girl, look to the world surrounded by the marks of drug addiction, psychotic amounts of money spent on makeup, tenuous drug elixirs, a patina colored blanketing on her arms of many designs, tattoos of Egyptian symbols, and a Mother Mary in her likeness holding her son. and the stare of a woman who has seen too much and felt it deeper, every step the repression turns the light ahead into a cornering shadow, the fear moves in, and consumes; her spirit in the maw.

In this juxtaposition of her life and the tattoo of her with her child bare, she thinks that life is only half-real; the real life is at some point ahead, in the future, pray tomorrow: If I become a solemn mother, I have proved that I can be purified of the horror and continue where I left off before I saw the ugly maw of abuse: when I was a little girl. There is nothing more pure than a mother. I must love a child of my own to become the child that I wanted to be. I must go far, far away to the light, to the sinless future and for now I will abate the memory of this horrible place by anesthetizing my life in continuous drugs, inviting the people that such a life accrues, but I will reach the light and forgot about all these people.

I forgive my mom for abusing me. I understand it now. If I can live my life without letting the pain she transfigured onto me cause self-destruction I'll be the sort of spirit that lived in the little blue eyes of my mom when she was a child.