I was pretty young... the first time my mother ever really scared me.

It was a Saturday, and every Saturday was cleaning day.

My brother was cleaning our hutch and the glass inside the door slipped from its safety hooks and came shattering down on the floor.

My mom darted across the living room and grabbed him by his shirt. I will never forget the look in her eyes as she screamed her threats inches from his face.

I was so scared. I had never seen my mother this angry..

In all of our years she was always the calm voice when things became chaotic.

A couple of years later, I remember sitting at the kitchen table...

My mom was standing in the doorway between our dining room and den and she looked me in the eyes and told me she should have aborted me.

I was about 11 or so and I remember thinking "how could someone say that to their child?"

I think I spent a lot of time growing up believing the things my mother told me. And never forgiving her.

I held on to her words like my favorite stuffed animals and I cried myself to sleep most nights.

And then I remember the night she almost died. Pouring sweat and she was laying on my grandmother's lap. Screaming and crying. Begging "mommy please make it stop"

My grandmother rubbed her head until the ambulance came to haul her off.

My mom's love was like a roller coaster and maybe that is why I was always scared to ride a real one. I lived on one.

Every morning was Russian roulette. I didn't know which side of her I was going to get.

I spent a lot of my days allowing her to hold me back and keep me caged in the misery she resided.

It was comforting in a way, because I was close to her even with the flames of hatred nipping at our heels.

She inspired me some days.

Some days she made me feel worthless.

An inch tall.

She made me feel unclean.

Left me coated in a filth that I couldn't wash off.

I struggled with the idea of life without her. I wondered if things would be easier. If I could handle my days if I didn't have the constant fear that pulling the trigger would lead to my imminent death.

And then I would cry.

Because my mom is my best friend.

I knew I could take the barrel pointed at my temple.

It was better than nothing, right?

The emptiness that came with the absence of her emotionally abusive ways seemed more heart wrenching than being reminded of why I'm not good enough.

I couldn't imagine the silence, but I pushed her away because I thought I was somehow protecting myself from her.

If I kept her at arms length I would be okay.

So I did...

The older I got the harder I pushed and she was far too weak to fight back.

I hurt her.

I know I did, but I needed to escape.

My friends became family and I soon became just as emotionally abusive as she had always been.

I ended up being just like her.

The one thing I spent so many years trying to avoid.

When she called I would get knots in my stomach as I answered.

Every. Single. Time.

We fought like we hated each other and I couldn't tell you how many times I was hung up on.

I worked in mental health for about a year and every patient reminded me of her.

I was kind to them. Patient. Understanding.

These days I wonder why I couldn't have that same patience with her.

Why did I allow them to say cruel things and still be supportive, but blow up when my mother said one sideways word to me?

I never thought she wouldn't be there, though.

I think I took for granted the time I had and always assumed I'd have many more phone calls that I'd dread answering.

Many more hang ups.

So I guess when I got the call that she was dead.. I didn't think that would be the last phone call that would end terribly regarding my mother.

But it was.

And it was so much worse than all calls previously.

I would have killed for one more fight.

Is that right?

I would have done just about anything for one more hang up.

Or even another I love you if it was a good day.

For years I resented my mother for hurting me daily.

But now I only resent her leaving.