The things we never had

Chapter 22

Sometimes, good people make bad decisions, and it ruins them for life. That's what I told myself during all those months in the hospital. My mother wasn't a bad person—she just made one terrible choice. It became like a mini mantra, something I'd repeat to make myself feel better, to keep the anger from bubbling up. I said it over and over again, even when I felt like screaming. I said it when I was too tired to cry, and when the pain in my body was unbearable.

I held onto those words during every surgery, every procedure. Even during the brain surgery, when they shaved my head and told me I might not make it, I whispered it to myself. I was scared—terrified—but I wasn't angry. Not at her. I refused to be. The doctors told me to start saying my goodbyes, said my chances were slim, but I didn't. I didn't want to say goodbye to anyone, especially not her. Despite everything, I couldn't bring myself to blame her.

She was my mom.

So, I held on to the idea that good people can make bad decisions. They can mess up, and sometimes that mistake destroys everything. It doesn't mean they're evil or cruel. It just means they're human. And humans are flawed.

But even with that mantra, there were moments—moments where the doubts crept in. Moments when the nights were too long and the painkillers weren't enough. Moments when I wondered if forgiveness was the right thing to do. Because forgiving someone doesn't erase what happened, doesn't make the consequences disappear. The scars I carry, both the ones you can see and the ones you can't, they're permanent. No amount of understanding or forgiveness will change that.

One bad descion.

One bad descion is all it takes.

I'm not stupid. I've seen enough police shows to know that most victims want their perpetrators to suffer, to pay for what they've done. They want justice, sometimes even revenge. They want them dead. So why did I feel different? Why wasn't I filled with rage, hatred, or the desperate need to see her punished?

I didn't feel what I thought I should, and it confused me. Shouldn't I have been angry, demanding she face the consequences? Shouldn't I want her to suffer for the pain she caused me?

Instead, there was this strange sense of understanding, an almost unbearable empathy. It was like I was trying to receive the guilt and shame she should have been drowning in from myself to prove she wasn't a bad person . I kept rationalizing her actions, telling myself over and over again that she wasn't a bad person, just someone who made a terrible mistake. And I hated myself for thinking that way, for letting her off so easily in my mind.

I knew what was wrong with me , the second I did I looked it up.

 What I had was a mix of trauma bonding and rationalization. Trauma bonding—the psychological response where a victim forms an emotional connection with their abuser, especially in abusive or manipulative relationships. It was a survival mechanism, my mind's way of coping with the betrayal and the pain. Rationalization—defense mechanism where the person convinces themselves that the perpetrator didn't act maliciously, or that there were understandable reasons behind the crime, preventing feelings of anger or resentment.

 My brain had latched onto the only thing that made the situation bearable: forgiveness, or at least the illusion of it.

 I couldn't hate her the way I was supposed to. Because, in a twisted way, I still cared. 

The moment I read the words trauma bonding and rationalization, it all clicked into place like puzzle pieces that had been floating in my mind for months, refusing to connect. It wasn't some mystery anymore. It wasn't confusion or weakness. It was a psychological response—a survival instinct.

I had been protecting her in my mind, justifying what she did, softening the blow. It was why I couldn't bring myself to hate her the way everyone expected me to. I had spent so much time holding onto the belief that she wasn't a bad person, that she'd just made a mistake. That was my coping mechanism. It was easier to believe that than to accept the full weight of her actions.

I felt it in my gut too—the constant pull between anger and empathy, the need to protect someone who had hurt me so deeply. It was like I was stuck in a loop, convincing myself that she didn't mean it, that it wasn't really her fault. 

But the truth was staring me in the face now. And as much as I wanted to bury it, I couldn't. I knew why I felt different. Why I wasn't filled with rage or a desire for revenge.

 I was bonded to her in the worst possible way.

I was emotionally tied to someone who had shattered me.

The internet also urged that if I had any symptoms of trauma bonding or rationalization, I should go get help. I tried. I really did. But every time I thought about it, every time I even got close to picking up the phone, I froze. I couldn't do it.

I couldn't betray her.

The thought of opening up to someone, of admitting what was going on in my head, felt like the ultimate betrayal. Despite everything that had happened, I still felt a strange loyalty to her, like seeking help would be turning my back on her completely. It was twisted, I knew that. But it didn't change how I felt.

It was like there was an invisible chain wrapped around me, and every time I tried to break free, it tightened, reminding me of all the times she'd been there for me before everything went wrong.  Those lovely years. 

The good memories. The moments where she wasn't the person who hurt me, but the person who had once protected me. I couldn't erase that.

 I lost her for the first time.

Now I'd lost her for the second time , forever.

So I stayed quiet. I didn't tell anyone what was really going on inside. I rationalized it, just like I had been doing all along. Maybe I didn't need help. Maybe I could handle it on my own.

After all, she did say that if I was a good girl, if I kept silent and didn't cry, she wouldn't hurt me anymore.

Those words stuck with me, like an echo in the back of my mind that I couldn't shake off, no matter how hard I tried. They haunted me in the quiet moments when everything around me felt too still, too calm. I remembered her voice, low and threatening, as if being "good" was the key to surviving, the only way to keep things from getting worse.

And so, I did what I was told. I kept quiet. I didn't cry, at least not where anyone could see. I swallowed the pain, bottled up the fear, and held onto the hope that if I just behaved, it would stop. But it never really did, did it? The hurt didn't stop, not even when she was gone. It just lingered inside me, festering in the silence I had forced upon myself.

Maybe that's why I couldn't bring myself to tell anyone. Because if I spoke up now, if I told the truth, it would mean admitting that none of it had ever really worked. That all the times I stayed quiet, all the times I convinced myself that I could handle it, had been for nothing.

But staying silent, pretending like I was fine—it was easier. Easier than facing the truth. Easier than accepting that being a "good girl" hadn't saved me.

It had just trapped me.