Growing up I was an abused child who wanted nothing more than to break free of the horrible torture that was imposed on me every day of my childhood. My mother hated me, and she was not shy in saying so. She would belittle me as if it gave her some kind of sick pleasure in destroying my fragile, developing ego. Naturally, I would grow up to be a person who didn’t have any ambition or goals for the future. This was because I focused all of my energy on the thought of getting away. I just wanted to be free, somewhere, anywhere; it didn’t matter to me.
I am not sure exactly when my mother decided that she hated me, but it was definitely apparent in all of her actions. She would blame me for anything that
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Many days I would sweep up the chunks of pulled out hair that left tiny little bald marks all over my aching head.
When I would escape I would go to my best friend’s house. Her mother Denise despised my mother and always said that if she could adopt me that she would do it in a New York minute. I loved to be there because I felt safe. My mom hated Denise and would insult the family and call them unspeakable obscenities. She knew that I would have rather been with my best friend’s family than with her, and she would accuse me of not having a loyal bone in my body. I did though; I was loyal to what I thought was right and true, and it definitely wasn’t beating an innocent child because I hated my own life.
I didn’t care what she thought; in my eyes she was the monster; she was the one who couldn’t accept the blame for anything. She was the one that would never apologize no matter how much pain she had put me through.
It was obvious to me that my mother had a serious problem. The drugs that she would take just to get through the day and the abusive childhood had played a role in the person that she had become. Her father had started the cycle of abuse and my mother let it continue turning her into the weak domineering, selfish evil mother that I never wanted or deserved.
I always blamed myself for her behavior, partly because every time that she would punch me, I always told myself that I would never forgive her. I
“What My Mother Doesn’t Know” by Sonya Jones was written in 2001.The book consists of events that aren’t out of the ordinary in a young freshman life,also it is solely composed of armature poetry,almost as if it is diary entries.The main character is Sophie who lives in Cambridge,Massachusetts.She is just entering high school and going through all the typical stages such as becoming distant from her mother and boys are always on her mind.As each poem is written it is enviable to see the maturity that has taken over her.The story really connects with its audience in the sense that when they were in their freshman year it was okay to be awkward and fall in love with every guy you laid eyes on.It is simply a part of growing up,but luckily she also shows that after she came
Alison Bechdel’s memoir, Are You My Mother?: A Comic Drama, focuses on Alison and her relationship with her mother. Her relationship with her mother affects the way she relates to people, especially her mother. Bechdel begins this portrayal of Alison’s relationship with her mother on the cover of the book. The red, wood-like background of the cover of the book, is behind all of the other objects. This background is most likely a desk or table of some sort with several objects sitting on top of it. Firstly, I notice the mirror. Mirrors are typically seen as a symbol of self-indulgence and vainness. The mirror is golden and the title of the book, Are You My Mother? is placed in the mirror itself. Secondly, I see the red beaded necklace. The beads are not completely on the book cover. Beads, jewelry, and the color red are often seen as signs of affluence and richness. Next, I see the black and white picture. What appears to be two females are present in the picture. One is older than the other. The woman in the picture looks like she is sitting and appears to be smoking and reading some sort of book, magazine, or newspaper. There is a girl off to the left side of the woman in the picture, clasping her hands, smiling, and watching the woman from a distance. Finally, I notice the lipstick on the cover. The lipstick is in a white container with a gold band. I can clearly see that it is a red shade of lipstick. Again, red lipstick is usually seen worn on someone of importance.
“You’re nothing I should have never had you… that’s why your father left!” She always told me every chance she got. As I was only five years old, I truly believed her. Her never ending yelling and abusive rants towards me I soon went into depression and thinking I wasn’t anything. It always crossed my mind
However, it wasn’t my mother he became violent with first; it was I. I had just come home from spending the day at the river with my friends when Jeff insisted that I stole a pair of his sunglasses. I of course denied this and it sent him into a violent rage. I was on my way to my bedroom, at the top of the stairs, when he began screaming and yelling at me. I, wanting nothing to do with his tizzy fit, ignored him and turned around to go back down the
When I was 11-years-old, we moved to Toronto, Ontario. Shortly after the move, I ran away for the first time because of my stepfather’s physical abuse. In the next two years, it was always the same; I ran away, and the police delivered me back to my stepfather.
His behavior had a negative effect on everyone in the family, but I knew that my mom was the one who suffered the
I lived with my mom and step-father that was not too fond of me. I was ostracized by him when I first moved to the country because he had a lot of trust issues. Also, he had anger problems that was always reflected at me. I needed to act like the perfect child to avoid as much contact from him. We lived under the same roof, but I did not talk to him unless I was spoken to. Honestly, I was terrified of him because of the angry demeanor that he presented. Me acting like the perfect child was sort of a defense mechanism that I automatically did to not ignite his anger. He would always make me do all the chores in the house and would disregard my own things to do and prioritized what he wanted to do first. I always blamed him for my restrained personality, so I wanted to move away from under his roof.
In my mind my mother was always on one side of betrayal to me; she gave betrayal on a small platter, but was always a complex explanation. As I grew older I never expected thing from her, and when I did I always knew that the promises were lost idea, when they left her mouth. As my defense I always think that nothing changes, and when they did happen they never seemed to like me, or I like them. Moving is a small thing to take in I grew up learning to pack because we moved a significant amount. While those were mom’s decisions I never took them as anything, until I look
There are many people that have the strongest impact in your lives. They are your role model and you want to be like them. These can be your family members, friends, or people that you just see on T.V. Whoever they might be they impacted your life because of want you learned from them. One person that had the strongest impact that made me who I am today is my mom. My mom had impacted my life and made me who I am today because she taught how to treat other how I want to be treated, don't judge other people because of their looks, and if you don't try you won't succeed. These are only the few lesson that I learned from my mom as a kid.
Every little girl needs her daddy, I would say I'm definitely a daddy's girl ever since I was little and even now as an adult. My dad and I have a really close relationship we, can go on for hours talking to each other when I would come home from school every day, I would always tell my dad about my day, and he would just sit there and listen to me. That was my favorite part of the day that I would always look forward to. But I never thought that one day, maybe that would change I never thought that I would end up talking to him only twice a week for a couple of minutes and only get to see him for a one month every year.
amounts of separation from my mother, even thou now I can look back and see if was just more then I was use to. Once into high school the separation grew larger, as I got older, her time for her boyfriends grew larger and I was left alone. I experienced a large disconnect with my mother, in which I spent more time living with my friends parents then I did my own. Also going back to throughout my junior high years a medical condition for numerous years that had gone undiagnosed and it created large amounts of avoidance towards my mother. I was very sick and my mother was told false information regarding my undetected and undiagnosed illness that made her what would her reactions and behaviors towards me improper. During my Illness I had
I do not dislike my mother. She brought me into this world and has loved me all of my life. I miss her. I miss our Scrabble games. I miss her phone calls when she checked in to see how I was faring in life. The greatest reason that I feel a loss is due to a choice that she made. My mother and my stepfather decided that my lifestyle is not on par with a decision I thought I was ready to make at only 11 years old. My parents chose their religion over me. The important part is that I am not angry about it.
As a little girl, I was sure that a good parent would allow me to eat all the cookies in the cookie jar or buy me toys at Toys R Us. When I got a little older, I figured that a good parent would let me stay up past ten o'clock on school nights. Then I became a teenager and I felt that a good parent would buy me a car and let me be independent.
With my anger towards my mom right now, forgiving her is like the windows. Out of reach.
My Mom was always involved with the wrong crowd, including gang members, drug addicts, and alcoholics as my dad told me. Her boyfriends were either in prison or just released. It was common for me to notice a new bruise on my mother’s arm before I could even understand how she got it. The boyfriends she had hit her and grabbed whatever objects they could to either swing or throw at her. At times I tried to help her by, hitting them, but I was so small at 8 that I easily got thrown against a wall or tossed to the floor. Then all I could do was cry and run to the neighbors for help. Whether the boyfriends were arrested or not, my mother always seemed to take them back. She was the type who put her boyfriends before others.