Paris Aleksander

Words my mother would repeat often. Perhaps she meant it, but more than likely she said it just to hurt me – to force me to feel guilt for becoming my own person, rather than simply an extension of the unconditional love she felt she deserved for creating me, like I had ever asked to be burdened with life. Those words cut so deeply however, that I had believed I would never forget them. I had held them in my heart, alongside the hatred and resentment that had built up toward her. However, I came to the realisation this evening that her voice has begun to allude me.

I can recall her expression, the smell of her strawberry-flavoured vape smoke hitting my face, her gaze, which could never meet mine in those moments, but I cannot remember her voice.

My roots spread beneath the many feet of children; their laughter enriches the soil, and I thrive alongside their growth. My branches unfurl upward and outward with purpose; a conscious will to protect their innocence from the cruel winds of time, so easily stolen and forgotten as the undeveloped shoots begin to bud with potential – leaves, flowers, spurs, or perhaps a combination uncharted. They sow within me a strength unsung. I long to become a rooted presence in their lives, tending to their memories and experiences during the time they are amidst these grounds, still within reach of my root caps, ready to sprout and protect once more if I were ever to fall.

I quickly recognised as a child that if I was to be accepted into my family, I would have to spend the rest of my life hiding away any sense of self. Instead of playing with toys, I would spend my time creating and testing masks with my kin, deciphering what worked best to experience the connection that seemed to come easy to everyone else in the family. I became calculating, borderline manipulative with a desperation to conform to my mother’s idealisation of family. The alation I felt when I had finally perfected the character of the first daughter and eldest sibling was addicting and I spent the next 23 years chasing the feeling, my collection of masks now an entire library in which myself was still hidden somewhere within.

However, as I began to grow and mature, I would feel a deep sense of emptiness. As I perused the library, I would oftentimes feel a presence among the many shelves. I had ignored the feeling for so long but perhaps it had always been there. Was there something I had forgotten? Or someone? A foggy memory of a small child, begging to be seen and for his feelings to be accepted. I had told him to go and hide, that it wasn’t yet safe for him to be exposed – he had assumed it was just a game and that I would come and find him as soon as we were sure that we would never been thrown away, but moments turned into days, then to months, then to years. He had grown sad, impatient and eventually, forgotten.

I then escaped. Fled from the exposed truth of my mother’s darkness. I was finally safe… but then why did I still feel so empty? The masks – the library I had spent my entire life constructing… was now completely meaningless. As I walked the aisles of shelves one last time, I noticed myself unconsciously searching for something. I quickly became strangely restless, my eyes darting around. Where is he? I remember! He can come out now!

In my dreams, I barely reach your waist. I am hitting you with small fists, screaming, “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”

And once I wake, you are gone and I am fully grown. I continue to whisper it to myself, hoping you’ll hear it.

…

Forgiveness is a concept foreign when memories of you enter my mind. Your face scrunched up as tears drip from your eyes and blood from your wrists. My small feet running across the hall for the first aid kit, my small hands cleaning your self-inflicted wounds, my small ears listening to you praise me for being “such a good child.”

…

I am so happy. I am disgusted. I love my mother. I hate her so much. I want to be praised more. I want to be praised more.

I close the door behind me, the sound echoing throughout the empty apartment. I am left completely alone, but I am safe at last. After twenty-three years of living on a sinking boat, the ropes securing myself to my familial ties slip from my grasp – I have let go. My hands are sore and my heart aches, but I can take a breath and begin to tend to the wounds left behind – I can begin to patch the holes and look ahead for new land.

My eyes dart to every corner of the room, not to find exits but to find space for the future I never dreamt would occur. My mind races, but not of thoughts of the past. My heart beats firmly against my chest, as if to remind me, “You made it.” Suddenly, as cliché as a flood of water breaching a thick dam, I fall to my knees.

I can finally say out loud, without needing to remind myself that it will all be over eventually, that it has been extremely difficult to get here. There were many times in which I had pondered over the worth of such an arduous journey – if at the end, would I even feel relieved, or just a deep regret? Would it be better to end it all now on my own terms than to continue to drown in the days and months ahead of me, with no lifebuoy in sight?

Now that I have locked the front door and awoken in my new home, I can say with my heart so full, that I would do it all again if it meant I would feel as safe and happy as I do in this moment. I have a home that I can call mine, and the rest of my life to fill it. Never will my mother contaminate this space. I will fill this home will love and acceptance that of which would never be found even in the smallest crevices of the house she lives in.

Whenever somebody asks me about you, I will tell them that you are dead. It is easier for me to grieve the portrait that hangs in my memories than the artist, who used the blood that we share as paints; her forgery of motherhood and innocence canvassed and displayed for everyone but her kin to experience.

The realisation that you are still living, continuing your life as you always have - without remorse or consequence for what you have done - is a worse grief than the relief your death would have on my resentful soul.

I will not surrender this anger, not until I know assuredly that you are finally gone from this world – one that frustratingly continues to shower you with love and mercy, all despite the immorality you hide beneath your virtuous façade.

I find my inner child holding back his sobs behind his locked bedroom door once again. I don’t need to knock at all. He knows that I am here. “You don’t need to stifle your sobs anymore. You can cry as loud as you need to.” The bedroom door unlocks and he lets me in, keeping me at arm’s length.

“I don’t feel burdened by your feelings. I want to comfort you only because I don’t want you to be sad all by yourself, not because I want you to be quiet… so make as much noise as you want. I’m here.” I crouch down and spread my arms, allowing him the chance to choose comfort over quiet.

When the opportunity had finally arisen for me to flee my previous home, I grasped it with a child’s fingers and an adult’s clarity. I knew that if I didn’t unlock my bedroom door at that time, I would die in there with nothing but ignorance of the world that was being kept from me. My mother would write a touching eulogy, and my wake would serve as simply another brick for her character, an eternal victim built from the lives she took, beneath her wings.

I refused to allow her to continue to live without consequence. If no one else was going to admit that she had us all living as puppets, I would be the first to cut the strings, even if it meant I had to live as a broken doll only long enough to comprehend that I was now truly living and breathing. Leaving came a great cost however, as I could only hold the door open long enough to drag my true character through – my siblings were not ready to become unblinded to the truth.

Living under my mother is extremely easy, in the sense that every decision, every emotion and every connection is never truly yours – it is all a part of her design. You never have to take accountability or responsibility for anything. She had already planned every route you might have considered and made it her own. All you need to do is switch off your mind and listen to her music, as harsh and as grating as it may sound.

Therefore, I understand why my siblings rejected me the way that they did. I was in their position for decades before now, of course. I can only hope that one day they unlock their own bedroom door and find that the outside is not half as terrifying as they had been told it would be; that they recall how I had gathered up the courage entirely alone and left without looking back at them – if I can do it alone, then they can do it too, knowing that I am already here.

" I keep the room cold,

Because I am burning with rage.

I am terrified of communication,

And yet I yearn for conversation.

I overcame my idolisation of you,

And the infantilization of myself.

I take accountability and responsibility,

Seeking guidance only from my inner child,

“ Little fingertips,

Pressed against the soft folds of their mother,

A gentle heartbeat,

Soothing them into a restful slumber. “

There was a time like that for me once, wasn’t there? A time in which my mother’s presence was comforting and didn’t instil an embodied fear in my heart. If there was such a time, I only wish I could recall it.

Quietly bawling behind locked doors, trembling hands and careful footsteps, hunger pangs that consumed the day. That wasn’t all it ever was, right?

I love writing; however, I would be lying if I said that I didn’t more enjoy the acknowledgement I receive when I post my work.

I have been starved of such a notion. Recognition has been an entirely foreign concept to me, for I have only ever been seen through. There has never been a situation thus far wherein I have felt acknowledged by my peers or otherwise. Therefore, I began to give up on the concept altogether.

Writing in and of itself has been almost effortless, not to brag. There have been moments in which the words escape me, and I am compelled to rewrite a sentence repeatedly until it feels satisfactory but overall, I am able to string together pretty words that read smoothly and appeal to the creativity I am attempting to convey, with relative ease.

I love rereading my work, especially when a stranger expresses enjoyment in reading it themselves. I will refresh the page repeatedly, a shiver of excitement coursing through me whenever I see that it has gained another like.

I have not a lot of things around me currently that bring me any joy, but writing and seeing others enjoy the finished project have me remembering the faint childlike glee that has long been trampled over and forgotten - so I think I am fine this way, for now.

I present myself as a gourmet spread and silently observe as my kin prepare to partake in the repast. While dressed in their most distinguished attire, they commence in the feast – hurriedly reaching across the surface and grasping handfuls of my portions, displaying unabashed inhibitions as they devour.

A pack of wild, starved wolves. Their eyes gleam as they step upon a desolate field and glimpse a solitary sheep. While their legs ache from days of continuous marching in search of nourishment, with a surge of adrenaline and a few wide strides - the sheep is swiftly pinned against the ground and ravaged.

Although innately devoted to their pack, they begin to bare teeth at their kin in a famished craze. Their bodies are tightly packed surrounding the sanguinary carcass, muscles tensed, and hair pricked on its ends. They consume indiscriminately and voraciously, lapping the blood drooling from their lips until there is nothing left but a warm, carmine profile - an act of survival and proof of life, barely acknowledged.

I smile excitedly as the delivery driver unzips the bag, beginning to hand me my order - I have not yet eaten today and I can feel my stomach aching with impatience.

Until he passes me a separate, smaller bag, which supposedly has my chocolate milkshake. The paper bag quickly spreads out in my palm, the cold liquid slopping around inside as I adjust my handling. “It’s a can, right?” the driver speaks.

“Um, no, it’s not - I think it might have spilled…” My voice falters, glancing between him and my drink with a frown. He shakes his head and begins to pull out of the drive, suspiciously quickly.

Lately, I have become nauseous by my own writings. My heart has quickly grown weary and cannot bear to continue visualising the trauma so vividly in my descriptions.

My mother’s hand is placed gently on my shoulder, and she is urging me to cease my mindless rage, written; she promises quiet, as if that had ever existed in her motherhood. Her blurred eyes lock onto the little child inside me and he shudders in desperation. I feel the urge to run from my mind that conjures up these passages.

My mother gave me nothing but this hatred that rests in my fingertips when I am attempting to write. Her voice rings in my ears when I finish a sentence. I am pressed against her chest when I curse her in my work. Her fingers run through my hair when I get to the end of the page. I feel her kiss on my cheek when I replace a word with its synonym, aiming to embody her true character, the one she hides beneath her own sweet prose.

Every word written is a harsh reminder that without my anger, this page would be blank. My creativity is fuelled by repressed rage. My desk shakes as my knee does underneath it, the anxiety sparking whenever I place a comma, swallowing the lump in my throat as I rewrite a line - repeatedly.