I was once the golden girl, the perfect daughter. I did whatever I wanted and never spoke up. Little Miss Old Reliable. The angel.
I bet you never saw it coming when I left.
I packed my suitcase and walked out the door. I was finally free. I didn't even look out the window as we drove away. I kept listening to "Break Away" as you got smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, standing in the driveway with tears streaming down your face. I didn't even feel bad.
You said I love you, and I'll miss you, and you can come back anytime. Why would I ever want to come back?
With my heart in my hands, I left you. My only regret was not taking the kids with me, and if I could've found a way, I would've taken them too. We would've all run away from you. Away from you and all the lies and the trauma. All the things you never taught us.
You never taught me how to tie my shoes. My friend Tiffany taught me. I taught my siblings.
You never taught us how to read. I don't remember you ever reading bedtime stories. Did you even tuck us in? I don't think you did.
And you'll never know that you taught me how to run away.
This is what you taught me.
How to never show up for anything. You missed nearly every choir concert. I hope I never miss out on anything if I ever have kids.
How to blame your children for eviction notices when you're the parent.
This is what you taught me.
How to come home drunk, so I have to tuck you into bed and clean up your mess.
How to make dinner when there's no electricity, gas, or water.
This is what you taught me.
You say you're a good mom, and maybe once that was true. You said you did your best, but honestly, I don't see the proof. You post all this sugary sweet stuff on Facebook, acting like we're the best friends, when the reality is you have to beg me to call or even respond to a text.
You act like we're the perfect family and you're the best mom. But the second anyone says otherwise, you turn on the tears. You say we're being mean to you. You don't want to hear the truth. I hope you look in the mirror one day and realize this is all you taught me.
How to disappear for days without answering your damn phone so I have to skip class again because you forgot you had a baby at home.
How to break every promise saying it'll get better when it never does.
This is what you taught me.
How to make all these big plans and never show up. Then, finally, show up with a false I'm sorry when we all know you'll do it again. I'll never forget my brother's face when you never showed up for Mother's Day. He threw the flowers in the trash and let them wilt and die.
This is what you taught me.
How to date younger guys who bring drugs into the house and leave it on the coffee table for the kids to find.
How to ignore when your daughters' are cutting their wrists in a clear plea to notice us. See us. Can you see us now? As we cut you out of our lives? You didn't want to see us then. You ignored all our pain. You taught us to ignore our pain, to smile like it's not real. You drowned your pain in booze.
This is what you taught me.
You say you're so proud of me like it means a damn thing to me
You brag about to your friends like you had anything to do with the woman I've become
You didn't.
If it were up to you, I'd still be in Oklahoma, being Cinderella and never getting out of the cellar. I'd be singing to the mice and the birds until you stole my voice once more. You'd stifle me until I couldn't breathe. No words would come out. I'd wither away like those flowers in the trash can.
Or do you not remember how every time we talked those first few years I was in Arkansas, you said I could come home? How you'd use my brothers against me. The boys miss you so much, you'd say.
I missed them, too.
You can come home.
Why would I ever want to come home? And you said I could come home? And I still don't want to return home. Oklahoma isn't home. It's a prison. The second I cross the state line, I break out in hives, and I remember how much I hate that state—because you're in it.
This is what you taught me.
How to stretch a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter and jelly a week for five kids because you didn't grocery shop. Didn't you hear my stomach growling? Did you ignore that too?
How to beg my friends for money to pay for bills. Do you know how ashamed I felt every time I had to ask? Had to beg? That's what you did.
How to hide my money in a boot in a closet, or you'd steal it. You'd get so mad when I wouldn't give you money. I earned it. You didn't. Why would I give it to you when all you'd do is spend it on alcohol?
How to lie and rewrite our entire family history. Do you know how insane that is? How you delete everything that happened in my childhood? Like it didn't exist. It did.
How to play the victim. You turn up the tears and give me a sob story. You slur words. Like everyone is attacking you. We're being oh so mean.
You didn't teach us a single damn thing that we can use. You taught us what not to do.
I feel like I'm repeating myself. How many poems do I have to write for you to get the picture? Do I need to put out a billboard? Spell it all out to you in capital letters? Should I put an ad in the paper? Should I make a video? What else do I need to do to make you see the scars you left on your kids?
Do I need to scream it to the heavens?
Or should I do the same thing you've done? Do I ignore it? No. I think not. I'm not wearing rose-colored glasses.
I learned what not to do from you.
-K
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