every me and every you

It’s my mother’s birthday, coincidentally, it’s also the birthday of one of my exes. Recently we’ve begun to speak again, we ended things amicably thankfully, so saying hello again was easy. As for my mother, we still haven’t spoken, truth be told I’d forgotten entirely that it was coming up. I’m

still within that gauntlet between thanksgiving and my own birthday. The realization dawned on me suddenly and forcefully as I scooped chocolate chips out of the 30 quart mixing bowl. Most of them

hadn’t made their way into the dough properly. The recipes process sucks! the establishment sucks! the fucking proof box doesn’t work now! No one told me anything on my days off and I had to improvise and make shift proof box out of one of the ovens! when I asked about it chef didn’t respond! I had to double text later on in the day! She said “check the fuse box downstairs.” WELL FUCK ME AM I AN ELECTRICIAN OR A BAKER?! SO DOWN I GO ONCE I ARRIVE TO WORK TODAY AND GUESS WHAT HEY

THE FUCKING FUSE BOX IS LOCKED!!! THE INCOMPETENCE OF THIS PLACE! THE LACK OF COMMUNICATION!!! GODS BELOW I MEAN

hey

WHAT

the blog… yknow?

YEAH!

WELL… before I realized what I was doing my fingers perfectly recalled her phone number and texted “happy birthday”

well now she has my number… if she figures out it’s me anyway. I won’t respond to any replies. I’m getting used to and starting to enjoy the separation. Some corner of my ego says “it’ll be a good birthday gift for her to hear from you again” I don’t know if that’s true though. My mom and my ex both were a bit inscrutable. In fact, when I think about it, I can’t say I really know anything about my mom or who she is.

Is it strange that my parents hid most things about their lives?

I’m sitting here trying to recall things about them and almost nothing comes up. My mom once mentioned a story about her uncle once breaking a bottle over her head. From the way she talks about it, the gash was quite significant. It sounds traumatic.

I feel bad for her whenever I remember that story.

A secretive person with many secreting ways. She had a few hidden bank accounts and things of that nature. Once we needed a large sum of money really badly so I could go to my second semester . Imagine my surprise when she wrote a check for the amount flat out.

I was inclined to ask, why then were we living in poverty if she had all this stashed away?!

Now as an adult I’m not so concerned with that, it’s fair enough if not admirable of her actually, if indeed the purpose was for the my education. It’s hard to say whether or not that was the case though, and it’s hard not to question *why* she would give me that money. It may be cruel to say, I don’t quite believe it was just out of the goodness of her heart, or motherly whatever.

As an adult my curiosity now leans more towards “just how much has she stashed away?”

I suppose the fact that she flat out bought a plot of land which my father is now developing his own personal castle on should be somewhat of a clue. But what of every time I was starving, what of every time I had to walk miles because I was the only kid in my group who’s parents didn’t buy them a car, what about when I needed help with rent, what of how badly I need these surgeries?

There’s so much I don’t know, I know that because I can read the face beneath her face whenever we did talk in person. Enough to know that there was a lot underlying. But never anywhere near enough to know what that might be.

I don’t know anything about her with certainty, making room for the idea that maybe my absence in her life is a relief. I wasn’t the best son after all, so I will continue to stay away.

She told me once that I was her favorite you know.

She told me once that I was her favorite.

I look back at her behaviors, her words, the behaviors of a different ex, and their different words. Recognizing, questioning manipulations. Realizing I was dealing with a creature entirely different, perhaps superior.

Perhaps they had mercy on me despite their cruelties.

If I knew more about her maybe I’d understand her cruelty and be able to forgive her for it.

But alas, nothing.

I often thought to myself growing up, “if I wasn’t born into this family I would sincerely want absolutely nothing to do with these people. They are in fact the sort of people I despise the most!”

Now that is the case, and I struggle with being apart from these people that I supposedly despise the most!

As always, the punch line isn’t lost on me.

It’s negative 11 degrees, I’m seeing people still walking around. Saw one running yesterday morning even. My sheer bewilderment at that made me temporarily forget that my skin was bursting into hives from the cold.

I question my own discipline and whether or not I’d be able to do what they do.

I question my own discipline…

I question whether or not I’m really her favorite.

It doesn’t matter!

She said it, I don’t care if it’s really true or not. I’m her favorite…

I’m her favorite? I’m her favorite! I love my abusers, I miss my abusers, I always want to be their favorite. All of them. I want them all to love me, even if their love is violence, even if their love is taking my body, even if their love is breaking my heart.

I’m her favorite…

I’m her favorite

I’m her…

I’m her.

post script.

Excerpt from Siouxsie Blackwater’s book of rituals & commands:

Ritual: Burn the ships

I’M SCARED

Ritual: Cover your face with both hands and call my name several times. When you drop them, I will be with you.