I’m scanning pictures from albums that my mother threw out & came across the picture of my first Christmas. In one of them, I’m being held so that I’m sitting on presents. She wrote on the back, “Our best Christmas present.”
This kills me. It reminds me that there was a time when I was her little girl, when I was the daughter that she wanted, when I hadn’t disappointed her yet by living my life, my way.
It hasn’t been that way in years. For the past 10 (or more), it’s been court battles and voice mails talking about how she she’ll be there when I die & that she wishes that she could be the one to make it happen and emails where she equates me with Charles Manson. It’s been years of her trashing me to every member of the family that she can, and turning them away from me.
There are times that she’s nice and, for a moment, it’s possible to pretend that things were like they used to be. Those are the times that she’s gotten what she wanted, which almost always includes having hurt me somehow. I never forget though. I always remember the hell that she’s put me through. I have to remember. It’s my protection from the next attack.