Mom

I try to forgive. I try harder than I've ever tried, but my horrid twisted tiny heart stretches and groans with the attempt. I can conceal the past and speak like I am your daughter and not a shell of a woman with a heart glued together again and again from the scars of your words, but inwardly I hate myself for the deceit. I've always been good at hiding my feelings, so that you will never know my true thoughts as I smile and speak with the respect you earn as my mother. Maybe it is because I don't want to be like you, and the only way I can avoid the raging and the outbreaks of anger is by turning off all my emotions. You call me insensitive, but I am doing it so that I don't hurt anybody. I won't let them take control of me like you do. I would rather disperse them to the wind than let one boil up and explode against people I love, and even people I must try to love—like you.

Sometimes I think I have forgiven you, and then I applaud myself for finally having gotten over years of hurt. And then something happens—it's the little things, now, that's how bad it's gotten—and I tense and I remember and it hurts again. But I keep smiling and I keep answering you with the respect a daughter must give to her mother, and I don't let you know, because if I did it would open a cavern of anguish and pain and resentment. I would rather forget than remember. And that is why I must forgive, and keep on forgiving. And maybe someday I will be free of it enough to reply with truth that I love you back when you say you love me.