I thought no one could hate me more than myself
But I forgot I had my mother.
So now I’ve made six flashcards for the most ever occurring moods of hers.
One is when she curses the day I was born.
Two is for the times she laments my existence.
Third is for days I forget to look as fair as and as healthy I’m supposed to be.
Fourth is because sometimes, I lose. (But sorry ma! I swear I tried).
Fifth is for days she reminds me how I ruined her life. (I apologize that I’m responsible for your life choices).
And last for days when I expect anything out of her.
All these flashcards are color coded;
Magenta, Turquoise, Arsenic, Neon, Peacock and Death!
With solutions to each mood written as follows:
Don’t react, let the storm pass, you don’t want to hurt her, she doesn’t realize what she’s saying.
Remember what all the authors talked about loving? Loving in sunshine and loving in hurricane.
But I think I need some more cards now;
Maybe of color Teal, Ash and Cray
Because suddenly these flashcards stopped working after 18 years.
Since the last two years I fight back and hurt myself more than I hurt her
While asking for answers:
Is it my fault that I can’t love conventionally?
Is it my fault that I suffered individual trauma you refuse to acknowledge?
Is it my fault that I feel empathy for people other than you? (That doesn’t make me feel any less for you, ma!)
Is it my fault that I am in perpetual pain? (Maybe it’s inside my head, but does that make it any less vaild?)
I’ll probably need a blank flashcard too
Because most of the times I don’t understand why she hates me.
Maybe because I refuse to carry the generations of trauma
Women have been carrying as burdens on their souls.
Maybe because I refuse to blame her for her own oppression
But also refuse to pass on this toxicity to a further generation.
Because I am not like the Shabanas and the Jyotis,
Who accept oppression as fate and think of respect as an obligation.
Or because I’m a child hated by destiny.
(Who can ever love a person not loved by her mother?)
She hates me because maybe I’m the whole universe stored in myself,
And I refuse to be apologetic about it.
Because I refuse to act like a good daughter.
And you see maybe I’m actually not a good daughter
Because at the end, my mother is like a colorfully designed bokeh on my camera lens
And irrespective of how much I try
Every pattern, every landscape, every picture is captured with her presence in it.
I can’t see my universe without seeing what she sees in it.
I thought nobody could hate me more than myself.
I forgot I had a mother.