There's a monster roaming around Ravenwood Advanced Academy-his unbound cruelty awaits for the next prey eagerly.
His victims sulk around the school with the truth choking them at a slow pace. Their girlhood has been disrupted and all that it's left...
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I loved my mother.
I loved her so much that it made me hate myself.
Inside the halls of my mind, the reverberations of unresolved emotions resonated, casting intricate shadows over my troubling thoughts. The bond between a mother and daughter mirrored a silent tempest, an unspoken storm that raged brutally against the boats of consciousness—promising it to swallow them whole.
I desired to peel every layer of my skin just so she could have a gear to go through this life that hadn't been gentle to either of us. I would transform myself into a boulder which she could grip and throw against those who tried so badly to hurt her.
There wasn't anything I wouldn't do for her and yet our relationship was as complicated as ever.
Beyond the surface-level grievances, extending past clashes over curfews or disagreements on trivial matters, laid a profound exploration. It delved into the depths of my earliest memories, where the very foundations of my comprehension of love and connection were laid. The nuances of our relationship, the unspoken words, the moments oscillating between tenderness and discord—all intricately woven into the fabric of my existence.
There were moments of craving, a deep ache for the warmth of her embrace—a longing for reassurance that I was truly seen, heard, and accepted for who I am. Yet, entwined with this desire was a complex web of longing and frustration. Times when her expectations felt like constricting chains, limiting my sense of self, constructing an invisible cage impervious to the rebellious force within.
Mommy issues: A silent battle, manifesting in the choices I made, the relationships I cultivated, and the unwitting replication of patterns. A yearning for validation that occasionally turned into a desperate quest for approval—a pursuit of a love that, perhaps, eluded rational understanding.
In the solitude of my contemplations, I grappled with the tumultuous battle between a child's yearning for unconditional love and an adult's sobering realization that relationships were inherently flawed across generations. The unspoken wounds, the lingering conflicts—they etched themselves into the internal dialogue shaping my perceptions, fears, and desires.
Did I crave her affirmation as a primal human need, an instinct born from the primal depths of my being? Or was it an endeavor to fill the voids left by moments of emotional ineptitude? The answer remained elusive, entangled in the intricate threads of a relationship that defied conventional mandates. I existed not merely because of the act of her bearing me—but because I had played a part in shaping her, too.
Navigating the ocean of my emotions, I recognized that confronting my relationship with my mother demanded more than introspection. It necessitated a careful unraveling of the past, a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths, and perhaps, an acceptance that healing was a gradual process—a journey through the layers of complexity that characterized the exhausting dance between a mother and a child, a dance that began even before my existence took form.
She loved me even more than I loved her.
I loved my father, but my mom was the only thing that had always tethered me to this universe. I simply did not love anyone as much as I loved her.
In the soft-spoken moments, not captured in the echo of unresolved emotions, her affection unfurled with a warmth that surpassed my understanding of truths on this desolate Earth. My mother's love, despite her own unaddressed complicated relationship with her own mother, was a steadfast beacon that illuminated the darkest corners of our shared life.
Her love spoke in the language of sacrifices made, in the untold efforts to shield me from the earthquakes that once ravaged her own life. It murmured through the tenderness in her gaze, smoothing the contours of unexpressed conflicts. In her actions, there was a commitment, a silent promise to provide a love that surpassed the scars etched into her own soul.
No measure of unresolved turmoil could extinguish the blaze of her maternal devotion. She loved ardently, despite the entanglement of longing and frustration that ensnared her own heart. It attested to the resilience of a mother's love—a force capable of enduring the burden of generational complexities, seeking redemption and healing through the act of nurturing.
In her love, there lingered an unspoken acknowledgment of our shared humanity, a realization that imperfections were inscribed into our existence. Her affection transformed into a compass, she always pointed north, reminding me that in spite of the hardships we had gone through, love remained a constant.
My mother's love, though entwined with her own challenges, stood as a source of steadfast fortitude. It streamed like an undercurrent beneath the surface of life's drowning waves, a coral of comfort and resilience.
