The Thoughts Of Amber

Chapter Three: Is It Me?

I don't know if you noticed yet most of this book is about my life because there is so much that really impacted my life, sometimes bad & sometimes good. I'm not saying my mother never cared about me or my brothers, but there are things left unsaid, undone, and words that I wish I could've said. When I look at myself, sometimes I do see my mom, but I think I just see her personality, I mostly look like my dad. Back in the day, my dad was not really committed he was a bad boy, and every girl loved him. So, I can understand why a lot of people like me I have my dad's funny side; he can make anybody laugh in the room, especially about politics.

I grew up with my mom. I didn't grow up with my dad, but everyone that I know who knows my dad tells me I'm more like him than my mom.

But I don't believe that; my dad once said that I was just exactly like my mom. I don't think he meant it, but part of me believes that he still holds a grudge against my mom.
I don't blame the guy  I hold grudges to my mom as well. The difference between me and my dad is that I truly do love my mom. He never actually loved her. She was just a one-night stand to him; that's all it was supposed to be, but you know, here I am.

It turned more into a half-ass relationship and a toxic one, too; they tried for a while to be together, I think, for my sake. But I also believe because my mom was just so obsessed with men, she felt like she had to just be with him.

I don't hold a grudge towards my dad. I wish he were more with me, though I only got to see him for about a couple of months basically, and then he moved out of state. But I'll be honest: when I finally met him, I was relieved. I looked at him, and I saw me, I remember he hugged me and was crying, telling me that I was his baby girl, and I always will be despite how many years he did not see me. I believed him. It's not the tears that got me; it's the fact that he protected me all those years, not physically, but if he had been in my life, I don't think it would've been healthy he had a whole lot of problems himself. And I'm glad he found himself; he's the old man I always wanted to see. 

My mother is so stuck in her old ways that there's no room for me, and when she tries to make room for me, she gets angry and mean to me. That's not a mom I wanted, but somehow, I always need her.

And I know she needs me.

Sometimes, I question myself, was it me? Was it her? Or was it the trauma she gave me? Was it the trauma that I gave myself? Why did I stick around so long? Why did I let myself get this bad? Why did she let me get this bad?

Sometimes, the answers are better left unsaid.
I don't think I want to know, and it's scary to know the truth. Why you are the way you are. I look at myself every day and ask, why did I get this bad? But it could just be my borderline personality disorder, or am I making excuses for my shitty behavior?

You never forget the words your parents tell you when you are little, especially when they're sharp. I remember the words that my mother has said to me, but I also remember the pain she inflicted on me. I didn't want shoes being ricocheted at my head, or smoke blown into my face because of that dirty cigarette she likes to smoke so bad, or getting my pants pulled down in the bathroom with a grown man in the room, beating me with a belt. And that grown man was a man who abused me too, but in her mind, it was okay to do. All of it was okay to do, according to her. But it wasn't.

I remember the one time my mother was in the bathroom for hours  I couldn't understand why, I kept waiting and waiting and more waiting. Mind you, I was about 5 to 8 years old our bladders cannot hold that much for so long, so unfortunately, I just let it out on the floor in my room; at that time, I did not care about cleaning it up I just cared about the fact that I finally got to go to the bathroom somewhere because god forbid, my mother was taking so long.

I got beaten to the point there were marks on me from the belt, I just never understood why she would beat me when she was the one that took hours long in the bathroom while her own daughter could not hold her own pee.
Mind you, I got a UTI a day later, and my mother acted like nothing she did was wrong, But yes, let's beat the child for making an accident.
But apparently, I was her precious little girl.

Another time was when I was about 12 to 13 years old, and my mother and I were having a very heated argument in the kitchen; we were at my uncle's house at the time because we lost our place to live, and the heated argument was actually about my dad, I told her that I wish he was in my life because the stepdad that I had was terrible. He was beating me, and my mother never believed me; then, again, she never believed that she was an abusive person, so they were basically made for each other. 
But that argument was so bad that she slapped me, I fell to the ground, and she kicked me right in my stomach and told me I was the most ungrateful little girl. I called the cops. They never believed me. And I still don't know how I got past that. But I did.

Her words were always sharp, but her actions were always so painful.
But I still question if it was me that was the problem.
but there are three sides to every story: her side, my side, and the truth. I hope I get to know it, or do I?