A Sort of Beth Jarrett

"Are you mad at me?" came the ludicrous text from my mother. I had just replied to her with answers to her questions, and she took that as anger. Of course she did; everything was negative with her. Her job was too hard, her nights too short, and life was miserable, even when it wasn't. No one can play the victim like my mother. Well, anyway, Mom, let's see. Am I mad at you?

I was mad at you when you laughed at my drawing, in front of my teacher, in first grade. 

I was mad when you told me I could have a kitten and then weaseled out of that promise. 

I was mad when you got mad at me, an eight-year-old, to the point that when we ate dinner that night, you sat as far away from me as possible and wouldn't even look at me. Wasn't I the child? 

I was mad when you ignored me, called me a bitch, and openly, obviously, favored my younger brother, taking every chance to tell me I was a bad kid and horrible big sister. 

I was mad that you were my mother, that I got stuck with you, jailed by you. What was my crime? Renting space in your womb for nine months? Send me a bill, and let's be done. 

I was mad, but you don't get to take up space in my head. Your negativity does not get to invade my life. It took me decades, pages of handwritten memoirs, and tears to my best friend and aunt, but no, I'm not mad. Not anymore. 

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