Salad Days

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My mother used to be my educator. My mother taught me I was worthless. She wanted me to feel that I was the culprit of the demolition of her life. I am broken emotionally and scarred, being pushed and slung around. I had no willpower, deriving from no role model to stand beside. Here, I felt nothing of trust, hope, or love. I had no sense of direction, and my place was on the floor inside of a closet, clutching my knees closer to my chest. I felt hot. My face and hands were flushed, while hate-filled blood rushed to my head. My nose burned as if underwater, and my eyes teared up. I felt in despair trying to keep my emotions concealed-- feign composure. I felt queasy. Uneasy. Frail. Inadequate. What can I do? I hate this feeling: the hand of a madwoman, the harsh whips from the belt of a man, the lies of those that pretended to support me.. I was being pulled into quicksand, surrounded by negative emotions and rugged, wretched people.
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I've been sitting around thinking about this far too long.
Long enough that my mother is no longer around.
My name is Scarla, and I don't want this to be the only thing I let define me.
My name is Scarla, and I want to live.