Raising Shattered Daughters

Photo by _Mxsh_ on Unsplash

Every parent has a favorite kid and if they say they don’t, they’re lying. My mom’s kids from her second marriage are her favorite.

They don’t remind her of her first marriage. In her defense, I feel the same way. My father was a drunk who often used both of us as punching bags.

She eventually dragged us out of there, but in reality I’m still there.

We moved to the country because of me. One last shitty decision landed me in the middle of nowhere in a town that smells like cows. Why couldn’t she just send me to boarding school or military school? I’ve clearly given up, so why won’t she?

I’m always trying to dig myself out of this hole, but I only seem to sink deeper. I try to reach out to my younger siblings and be a good sister, but they avoid me. It’s the coldness that kills me and the shame that I even care.

Mom’s actions say she’s trying, but her eyes never meet mine.

Does she hate that I look just like him? Because I hate it too. Does she hate how I shut down like she used to when dad would yell at her? Because I hate it even more than she could imagine. Or maybe it’s just me. Does she hate me? Because I hate myself, too, and being in a dumb town in the middle of nowhere isn’t going to change that.

The people in the community are so bland and dull and what I need is flamboyance and excitement. Or maybe it’s misery, because mine definitely needs the company.

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