Sleep is the only medicine I have left now. I sleep with the hope that this conscious life might stop for a while. “Oh, you naive one,” they could shout at me. Where can you escape from the garbage stuffed into your subconscious? When you wake up, it comes as thoughts; when you sleep, as dreams. And these nightmares will wake your feelings and torment you, so much so that you can’t even distract yourself. After all, you’re asleep and can’t move. They come so treacherously and exhaust you from the struggle until morning.
In my dreams, I search for my siblings. I try to save them from floods, the whizzing bullets in wars, flying monsters, and who knows what else. Somewhere nearby, my mother appears, but she does nothing. She just stands there passively, watching. I often have words to shout at her, words I can’t remember now. But I scream mercilessly, trying to make her understand, but she still doesn’t. She is an impregnable fortress. I don’t remember if her face is smiling, but she never listens to me. I shout even louder, and she listens even less.
A confrontation with my mother never happened in reality, despite many of her actions being unacceptable to me. I never spoke up, never said what I truly thought. So when I turned 18, I got up and left the house of hell, where every molecule of oxygen suffocated my soul. The air was filled with neglect, carelessness, the imposition of responsibilities, demands for tasks done or undone, indifference to what was happening at school, whether I was struggling with something, whether I needed anything. The air was filled with ignored and dismissed crying, emotions, silence, a lack of openness, no support, and a sense of vulnerability. The air was full of unmade food and ungiven glasses of water.
In that space, I remember only one picture. My mother sitting by the window with a huge piece of embroidery in her hands. She embroidered for days, weeks, and months. Meanwhile, I ran around and took care of my needs myself as a very young child. Not just for myself, but also for my little siblings.
My mother’s motherhood to me could be called passive motherhood. Completely inappropriate motherhood for what my child self needed. Despite having a monstrous father, I still wanted a mother who was a protector, someone to share the pain and provide emotional support. But where was she? She was sitting and embroidering. Perhaps she was trying to save herself from the monstrous husband, but who would take care of me? I had no one but my little self and my older sister, who suffered just as I did.
I wanted to feel anger towards my mother too, especially when she forced me to pray. She forced me to pray as a child who knew nothing about life, when my task should have been only to play and receive an education.
Playing was restricted, replaced by a long list of adult tasks and diligent studying. Why did you limit my play? Plaing man…! I was a child! You made me grow up too soon, you worthless people, too soon!
As if my father’s terror wasn’t enough, you came up with your own punishment methods. What were you thinking when I knelt in front of icons for hours, serving my punishment? I wonder, what was I being punished for? Oh yes, I remember, for speaking up. You punished me for speaking up, for letting you know what I needed and wanted. For this, you sent me to the icons and made me kneel. You know, it wasn’t just my knees that hurt. My soul hurt too, my self-esteem and sense of importance were damaged. What made you think of such silent violence? Is this your idea of motherhood? For what, why?
You didn’t lack in emphasizing my worthlessness either. You didn’t spare my childhood, turning it into a hell. You pushed me into the church and forced me to pray. What did this bring you? What meaning did it give your life? What benefit did this bring to either of us? You hurt me just as much with your inaction or actions as the men did in my life. You silenced me too, shrank me to the height of my knees, and humiliated me, just like the men did. You didn’t protect me, didn’t let me speak, didn’t listen to me, didn’t see me, neither did you, Mother!
They stopped giving me strong medication. I no longer walk around dazed and I remember everything. I remember everything well, my memory doesn’t fail me. I remember everything, do you remember them? Do you ever think about what kind of parenting you did? Don’t you dare attribute my strength to yourselves. This is mine, my desire for survival and instincts. Don’t you dare take pride in it. I don’t give you that right. Now I hear, “I’m proud of you”! More terrible words could not reach my ears. You killed me, and I survived by myself, and now you are proud of that? Don’t you dare! I want to stand and scream: “Stay away from me!!!!”
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