I don’t like my mama..

I don’t like my mama..

And my mama don’t like me.

I let out the biggest sigh while typing that. It’s really sad, because she describes the relationship with her mother as the best—and then there’s ours. Nonexistent.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my mom, and I’m truly grateful that she’s here and that I have her in my life. I appreciate what it is, because it could have always been worse. But the aggravation and agitation I feel toward her have become so constant. It’s like the love is there because she’s my mom, but the feeling of dislike takes over in so many ways.

My mother has been in my life my whole life, and financially, I’ve always been equipped and taken care of. But mentally and emotionally, she checked out a long time ago.

From the time I was in eighth grade, I noticed a shift. Even before that, we never really had girl dates or girl talks. Honestly, there’s so much I’ve never told my mom or done with her, because she doubts me and makes me feel like my dreams are too far gone or impossible. I honestly stopped dreaming.

I’m not blaming her for where I am today, but I do feel that because I wanted her support so badly, I doubted myself when I didn’t have it. I’ve stayed back in so many ways because of her—the one who was supposed to be rooting for me, rooting against me, cheering for the other team.

Those who get it, understand. Those who don’t, don’t.

Every day I’m reminded that the love she has for me is sometimes questionable. Is it love because she has to love me, or because she chooses to? Either way, it feels more like obligation than love.

My mama has been there when girls tried to jump me—yes. Growing up as an only child, the only person I could call was her. She says I kept her in “shit,” but honestly, she kept me in so much more. Everyone knows I’ll ride for my mama, but nowadays she riding for whoever put me out the car..

Even while wearing the latest shoes and the nicest things, I’ve always had to prove to people I wasn’t some spoiled “silver spoon” kid. They saw the clothes, but never the hole burning inside.

The dynamic between me and my mom is hard to understand. I’m not asking anyone to understand it; I can only tell you what it is, in my life, and how the roles are played.

I feel my mom needs healing, and she’s avoiding it in a lot of ways. The things she’s said to me have hurt me deeply. But now, it’s like whatever—it rolls off. The anger doesn’t last anymore.

I feel she verbally abuses me because of the negative agreements she’s made against herself or at least accepted from others.

She sees the little girl she wanted to be inside of me and it irritates her soul that she couldn’t be.

The flaws within herself is deflected onto me and I honestly feel she’s still hurt from my dad, so when she looks at me, she sees him. Seventy-five percent of her pain, I believe, comes from him—and somehow, she still manages to deal with a package labeled toxic poison, throw away immediately.

I’ve detached.

Some may ask, “Are you the problem?” My response is no. But I have taken accountability for my actions and my wrongs—how I’ve made her feel by lashing back. I don’t find that right, and I wish I knew what was truly hurting her, so we could find a way to fix us—if we were ever tight to begin with.

The things she says to try to hurt me are so evil. She threw my abortion in my face and told the family, as if she wasn’t part of the reason I went through with it. Why would I bring a child into a broken home when I grew up in one? Why hold on to a baby for a man?

No—I put myself first.

I couldn’t even talk to my mom about my decision, and that’s what made it worse. How are you in the same house with your child and don’t know she’s pregnant? How are you in the same house with your child and don’t even know your child?

Every time I asked to talk to her, she was busy. And all the times she assumed I was, I never was.

I got pregnant after we lost my cousin. I got caught in the moment. I knew I didn’t want the man for real, so why would I bring his baby into the world?

My parents are non-supportive—too busy to even entertain the thought of being grandparents—and our relationship is hazy.

Ladies, I’m not saying abortion is the way, but in the end, choose yourself first. Always choose yourself first.

That’s what I did—chose myself first, because who else was going to?

So many people grow resentment toward their children because of who they created them with. A prime example: me and my mother’s relationship.

I wasn’t prepared to be baby mama number four nor was I taking the “black single strong mother tour”

Call it what you want, but I made my decision—and God is the only one who can judge me. No one will ever make me feel bad about putting myself first.

I was five weeks and four days—no heartbeat, just an egg sac. God knew, and He made it peaceful for me. It wasn’t traumatic or heartbreaking. I felt no pain.

I’m vocal with my truth. I try not to soak in lies.

I’m not the perfect child, and yes, I’ve made plenty of mistakes. But neither of my parents has ever taken accountability for why I am this way. The pain from both of them has made me treat them like they’re just people off the streets.

When they get mad and lash out, they say things that only an enemy could say. Like, why would you say the things you said and think it’s okay? When they go against each other, they expect me to pick a side—but when everything’s good between them, they want me to stay “out of things.” It’s draining.

I’ve come to accept that they’re stuck in their ways. I’ve always placed my mom on a higher pedestal, so her pain cuts deeper than my dad’s. Honestly, I don’t care to indulge in him. He’s got a bunch of kids who barely talk to him, and he sees nothing wrong with that—so I let it be. A man who doesn’t do right by his kids, grass will never stay green.

Some may ask, “Am I the problem?” No. I just speak up about how the fuck people treat me. I’ve been quiet for a long time, but now I’m talking—because who are you to keep discrediting me when you ain’t got a pot to piss in or a toilet seat?

I’ve been out of my mama’s house since I was nineteen. I came back after six and a half years. How many times did you go back home, Ma—to my granny’s house—with me? My legal situation put a hold on my life for a moment, but this too shall pass.

I’ve always had my own, and I’ve always busted my ass. I stepped away from dancing to change my life, only to fall back in because I needed quick, fast money. So, I hit the pole. They try to talk about what I do, like they ain’t been in the streets selling their souls. But thank God, I got their hustle. I just ain’t turned up like they have—because of God, I’ve turned away from a lot of things.

I could’ve been in the streets doing what a lot of girls do, but I wanted a clear name and no backlash—out of respect for my mama, because I know that ain’t how she raised me. They think I’m gonna fail because they say I don’t have street smarts. But I’ve been had that. I just watch what I say to my parents and play dumb when they ask.

I ain’t the smartest one in the world, but I’m far from the dumbest. God is the reason I can’t bring myself to get over on people, scam, or move illegally. So yeah, I dance. I make money.

But this time around, God’s been showing me something different. He told me it’s time to do something else. Dancing is truly coming to an end—and that’s between me and Him, and nobody else.

Anyways, I don’t like my mama and she doesn’t like me..

I’m praying for change in the future because why am I grieving my mother and she’s still on this earth with me?

#vulnerablemoments #motherloss #shortstories #grievingmother