āItās always about boys to youā, you said hot faced as I shrunk in my seat. Reminiscing to when you missed my first day of kindergarten to be with him, and Christmas too. I was in elementary school when I called you over fifty times wondering where you were, I needed you to curl my hair, my first communion was in the morning. But you were with him, again. But this time in jail. That was the first time I felt shivering cold in the heat of the fall. You wondered why I had so much anger in such a small body, but how can you wonder that when you moved one-hundred-and-nineteen miles away, and left me at fifteen living with a stranger. But I pushed the pain down every night, with this overwhelming sadness, covered in blankets questioning why Iām still shivering. Itās ironic, Mom. When you locked yourself in the bathroom, saying it was the end, as your six-year-old daughter pounds on the door saying sheās sorry for doing nothing wrong. Yet, somehow I thought youād understand when that six-year-old grew up to seventeen, the pain she pushed down every night lead her to lock herself in the bathroom, but no one was pounding on the door for her. But you called me dramatic, Mom. You drilled into my head that suicidal thoughts were dramatic. You sent me to the hospital when the only thing that would help would be you, holding me. Youāve been there too.
