She Made Me Do It. A story I used to be embarrassed by

She made me do it

 

It isn’t my fault.

 

It never was and it isn’t now.

 

She made me do it.

 

I cut the blackness from me, it hurt but I liked it. It dripped, not like water but like syrup. The darker I made it the better I felt. Closer to black was best.

 

It was like solid bleach, it cleansed where I sliced. I gripped a black handle and removed black. It was poetic.

 

I blamed her. Why wouldn’t I? Who else was to blame? Me?

 

Maybe….

 

I tried my best. I did the friend thing. The ‘helping others’ thing. I even tried pretending I was HAPPY for a while. For what?

 

A meaningless hole was everything I had left.

 

I was supposed to be strong, supposed to be over it, it was seven years after all. But I wasn’t. Something remained, something that had to be cut out.

 

They used to suck out the bad blood with leeches. ‘Bad Blood’ used to be the problem, why could it not be now?

 

Deeper. That’s all I had to dig was deeper.

 

I wish you were here. I’m not allowed to think that let alone feel it but I do.

I just wish we could be like we were, sometimes I even wish for the bad things. The bad things you did. Just because it meant I had you.

 

I dug a little deeper again. It hurt more than the vodka should allow.

 

I thought of all the people that ‘loved’ me. I didn’t know where they were.

They were around when they wanted to be and gone when they didn’t. Where was I supposed to hang in the meantime? I was being selfish, it rang in my head, exactly as she said. I was selfish. All I cared about was me.

 

How could I pretend I didn’t? It was all I cried about, and I cried often.

I cried walking to work, I cried curled up on the piss covered toilet floor, I cried as I tried to dream myself to sleep. I only ever cried for me, never for anyone else.

 

I dug deeper now, I could practically feel it in my bones. I was feeling just how deep I was cutting. I LOVED IT, I felt alive. Alive and happy. All I had ever asked for.

 

I went to work, to uni, to the pub, the pink lines fresh and curious. Only the bravest commented.

 

“What are those scars?” the lions would ask.

 

“Cat scratches,” I would reply.

 

“What are those marks?” the rude would ask.

 

“Symbols of the past,” I would reply.

 

“What’s wrong?” my friends would ask.

 

“Nothing,” I would reply.

 

“You’re killing yourself, and for what?” no one would ask.

 

“For her,” I would reply to no one.

 

I loved, and I hated, I spat in anger and I would cry in happiness but I just couldn’t find a path that left me content. So I turned to all I had ever been uninhibited by, vodka.

 

Vodka was both my enemy and my friend. Not unlike my enemies and my friends. Vodka soothed the edges that remained forever raw and sharpened the curves that had softened. Vodka was my demon, my Lucifer, my Devil and my Gabriel. Vodka had become my Go To.

 

It was her Go To also. I remembered how it freed the rent, The Rent that had chosen to wrap its fingers around my neck. The Rent that had smashed my head against the wall as it forced its evil around my throat, trying desperately to squeeze out everything I stood for.

 

I stood for a life of luxury, of love and of help that she direly needed. I stood for everything she willed me to have, everything she thought I would have if I left. I stood for everything I would have to fight for, I got nothing handed on a silver platter as she expected. I fought, but even that wasn’t enough.

 

All I had for my struggle was a head between the door and the frame. SMASH, SMASH, SMASH. Plus another one for good measure.

 

I was actually seeing spots floating around my head.

 

I didn’t try and scream, why bother? It hadn’t helped before, I wouldn’t start now.

 

The thoughts made me dig a little deeper. I was trying to find what she hated, what made her call me what she did. She was a mother, not a beast, it must be something in me.

 

I’m still searching. Still digging. I’m still trying to find the little piece that should never have been.

 

She made me do it though.

 

She made me dig. I was happy before she started her comments. I was happy before she told me the truth of what she thought I was.

 

Now all I am is a shell. A shell of who I know I am.

 

If your own mother can’t love you, then who else truly can?

 

She made me do it.

 

She doesn’t care, I’ve told her what I’m doing, and all she wants is her own happiness.

 

I’ll never be that. She made me do it.

 

And I let her.

 

 

 

 

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