Some people say “A child’s first bully is someone at home,” if you’re me, it’s my mother. 

I can only remember certain parts of my childhood, so to be fair I could have been an asshole. Or a weird child. I remember crying a lot, because she travelled a lot. Mostly to support my father’s blooming political career. Genuinely, I thought I was a Mommy’s girl cause I loved her so much. 

I hardly ever saw my dad. He wasn’t the most present by the time I was born. He was done raising kids. As I believed the same was for my mother. You could tell by the way she raised us, my brother was her last born emotionally and mentally. 

It was easier for my mother to leave me at home with the help. “You can’t keep crying every time I travel, be a good girl and don’t cry anymore.” She made my tears feel like a burden, as opposed to an act of love. 

Then the tears stopped, and I prayed for the days when she would travel. I preferred when she wasn’t home, I became accustomed to it. I enjoyed the solitude, the big empty house provided. My siblings had gone to boarding school, university, or were now living on their own. Being the last born, I always felt like an afterthought with them as well. I don’t blame them either. I don’t know how they were raised. Perhaps they were raised to be selfish, just like my mother. 

I don’t hate my mother, I never could. I thought I did for a little bit, turns out it was something worse. It was indifference. It was easier to avoid the comments about my weight, my looks and my grades when she wasn’t around. 

Silence filled the room whenever we sat together. The damage was done. Funny enough there was a time when she was my hero. “Who is your role model?” they asked in school. The only person I could think of was my mother. She maintained a household, kept her husband happy, looked good and worked independently.  For a while, it looked like she had it all. 

Then the covers dropped. All her kids left for boarding school, except me. She was tired of playing the bored housewife role. She missed her old job or at least working. So she packed up and moved to a different state. I had one more year before, I had to go to boarding school myself. I guess it wasn’t soon enough. 

I thought I was her baby. Again, I won’t judge her based on my experience with her. At that time it was easy to convince myself she didn’t like me. Now looking back at my age, I can understand that she did whatever she could to keep her sane. 

Children knock ten years off your life in general, badly behaved kids at least fifteen. I don’t think I was badly behaved, but even as an adult I have the tendency to say whatever the fuck I want

She had just returned from one of the girls' trips, “Baby look, I got this for you.” she beamed. “Oh, what did you get me,” I smiled, completely unaware of how shady she could be. 

(Before we continue, keep in mind neither of us knew what a resting bitch face was.) 

She pulled out a cheap KMART pyjama set with a sad cow that read “I’m Moooody.” I’m not slow, I caught onto that a lot quicker than she realized I would. By the time I reached 10 years old, I had already gotten accustomed to shutting up around my family. It became increasingly obvious, no one really wanted to hear anything I said, because I talked to much. 

Also as the last child I was teased a lot, so I learned to stay quiet and entertain myself. But apparently I never smiled when I stayed quiet. So for most of my childhood I always heard that God awful question,”Why are you Moody?” To which an asshole in my family would respond, “Pay no attention to her, that’s how she is.”

That got irritating really quickly, as much as I was sick of hearing it the more I started to distance myself from them. 

“Thank you,” I walked away with the sourest mood. I believe in that moment the thing that offended me the most was my mother had taken the one thing I was most insecure and plastered it on a shirt. She probably proudly displayed this to her friends, telling them stories about me always being in a foul mood like it was a joke. Not letting them know why I was in a foul mood. 

For someone taught me nothing about having self esteem, she really fucked with my psyche by diminishing it even more with that stupid shirt. 

She probably could read the disappointment in my face. But then again, I was overweight and most likely nothing would have fit me except the shirt with a cow on it. Battling a mini depression. 

I took that experience with my mother, listened to some strong women, and found my footing in society. Once I finally started to teach myself self-love, I wore that fucking shirt every day. It became a funny story. 

When people asked what it meant, I told that story with pride. I loved that shirt till it met its end. 

My mother was a baby girl turned housewife/mother. I believe she dutifully married my father to live a life of leisure. She always looked good, and smelled good. Her makeup was always done well and she was very neat. I admire her life. However, if I were her I would have stopped at three. My trauma with her wasn’t worth the hassle of being born.