Last night, I dreamt a  gaping  hole  on the side of my
face.   Unaware  that  I'd  even  dozed  off, I went to
scratch my cheek and  my  fingers  just sank in. Didn't
hurt either,   somehow  only  making it infinitely more
disgusting to me, probably why it ended up sticking.

(In case it's an actual thing not to -- I  have no idea
-- I do feel pain in my dreams, usually anyway.)

In times of stress,  my mind gives me recurring dreams.
Each time  its  own  little  thing, reflecting what I'm
dealing with in  life.  Except  this time the recurring
theme is   that  they're  all  nonsensical garbage that
nothing of help can  be  gleaned from. Which is kind of
insult to injury -- I  do actually get a lot of use out
of my subconscious, and  this  is  certainly not a time
I'd like to be  without  what  is essentially one of my
senses.

I doze off some time  in  the early evening and wake up
either side of  midnight. Any of the comforting ambient
sounds around   here  will  do  it, lately; immediately
comes the unease that  drives  me  straight to my email
inbox, and   there,  again,  sits yet another disturbed
email from  my  mother. This neverending, nowhere-bound
conversation has been  my sole human interaction for...
weeks, then months,  long  enough  it's almost become a
strange new normal.

I have been trying  to  get  away from her, once again.
For a while I thought  it  was going well, that I could
salvage something of  that  relationship if I just take
all the right steps.  In my idealistic hopes the choice
isn't between this thing  that rarely even feels like a
life, or some great vanishing act, but those seem to be
my options.

As   for  her,  she  has  made  it  very  clear  that a
relationship where she doesn't hold power over me is of
no interest to her.

So I   write  back,  not  wanting  to be the heartless,
selfish person she  keeps  describing  to me -- despite
knowing she will return  to  telling me as much as soon
as I step outside  of  her  script. And as I mentioned,
it's not   like  I  have  anyone  else, really. I'm not
exactly one  for  friendship, despite a near-bottomless
appetite for social interaction; the connection I crave
is that of family, and this is what's left of mine.

There is  such  endless  faith  placed in mothers. Acts
that  would  be    condemnable  from  anyone  else  get
forgiven; accusations that  would  stick to anyone else
fall at   least  into  doubt  if not outright upon deaf
ears. Your credibility  as  a  survivor hinges on which
parent's hands you suffered  at.  You have some kind of
an   angle,  surely.  Attention  seeker, ingrate, liar,
manipulative, schizo. Or  in the most favorable of eyes
just a  little  oversensitive  --  the worst moments of
your   life  quickly  turn  into  nothing  more  than a
misunderstanding, in the  mouths  of  those who want to
assure you how much your mother loves you.

If you   already  have  your  personal pick, keep it to
yourself.

I've cultivated a  perverse kind of comfort in people's
unempathetic stances. A comment section under news of a
woman   murdering  her  children,  filling  with people
lamenting how much she  must  have  been hurting, to do
such   a  thing.  Only  afterwards,  any sorrow for the
little victims  robbed  of  anything  else than being a
receptacle for that  woman's  own problems. Things like
these give me the  closure people that say these things
would never knowingly  afford me: the 'bad enough' that
you wished   for,  a  last  resort  for a child when it
becomes apparent that all  of  your  hurts and fear and
confusion isn't enough to get you the care and kindness
you desperately dream of, truly does not exist.

It's a familiar exchange. Even those who don't outright
discount   the  stories  I  tell  them  are always more
preoccupied with making sure  I  think  of her needs or
her pain or her  wishes  before my own. Like I wouldn't
be in the perfect  position to see that she suffers? Of
course she   does,  she  is  sick, far beyond what they
could imagine, or rather have had to face.

And what makes my  own hurts too meaningless even for a
moment of  sympathy?  The  irony  is that I do feel for
her, even understand her,  after having been left on my
own with even the aftermath. The price of being able to
live   as  something  of  a  normal  person then became
understanding   her  issues  as  well,  the  search for
justification for actions  that should not deserve any.
And just to be  absolutely clear, so there is no chance
for   any  unnecessary  optimism:  none  of it has ever
made me feel any better. Feel  numb,  maybe, but mostly
I just have to do with not giving it any mind.

Walls and   walls  of  her  reimagining and rearranging
three decades of my  life  based on how she feels right
then. Self-pity,  then  berating, then saccharine charm
and conciliation; she goes  at me like she is aware I'm
the last   holdout  in  her  narrative  of herself as a
faultless parent.

I'm so exhausted. I'd give almost anything to not think
about any this for a while.