Digging to China

I was standing in line at a store waiting to pay and the woman in front of me turned around and I imagined myself being small and cute and saying and doing and acting the perfect way so I wouldn’t get called arrogant or attention seeking or superficial and I didn’t draw attention to myself. I did it well. They turned around and looked at me. They ignored me and continued talking among themselves. I kept up the act because I was committed to it now but I felt angry and exasperated because I was being perfect and lovable by my own judgment and I knew these random ladies weren’t going to love me and I understood it and I knew then that I had been enraged for so long because my mom played a game with me. She gave me reasons I was wrong but then, when I was right, she was the one that refused to love me. I wasn’t wrong for me to expect her to love me or want it. I wasn’t wrong for me to be vulnerable or to be a child even though she bullied me and laughed at me inside for wanting her to like me so desperately. It was wrong for her not to take the responsibility of being my mother and she was fake and easy and superficial. She was the one facing the crowd, changing her voice when she picked up the phone. She was always pushing me behind her, pushing me to retreat, telling me that everything I did, it was never authentic enough, it was never profound enough, caring enough, that I didn’t touch the soul of the soul of the soul enough. I was never deep enough so I dug and I dug and I had acne scars on my cheeks and I dug a hole to the other side of me, straight to China, straight to hell, straight to Costa Rica and out the back door of her house which she tried to keep me from leaving and straight out of her life forever with a cease and desist email threatening legal action and I never ever ever heard a word from that woman again.