PlasticFace
My story is in my about me, if you'd like to know.
- Feb 16, 2023
- 95
My mom passed away recently and while our family boxed her things, they decided to send me the binder of papers that had my name written on it with a little heart at the end. This had paperwork that I'd been looking for for months. It also has my stupid preschool art projects that I thought for sure she threw away. A bag of a couple of baby teeth (Is that weird?). It had a few mothers day cards, a birthday card, and a popsicle stick flower with my first-grade picture in the middle. At the very end of the binder, in the plastic pocket, was a suicide letter that I wrote to her when I was 16. I don't know why she kept it and why it was so perfectly preserved, still having my folded-up corners and the hole from where my pencil broke through.
I can see my 16-year-old self writing it when I read it. In the corner of my bed, needle and pill bottles were all around me. I was sobbing so hard that I had to scrap my last paper because it was getting too wet to write on. While reading it, I noticed it smelled like my mom's old perfume. I couldn't help but laugh to myself because that further proved that she really did bleed into every single aspect of my life. Everything I've ever done, she has somehow made her own. I wonder if she kept all of these things not because I made them for her but because they reminded her that she made me. Did she ever think I'd find this binder? Is that why she put a little heart at the end of my name? *****<3 Surely that couldn't have just been for show.
It feels weird knowing that she's read this so much that it even smells like her. That she cared it about so much that she put it in the plastic pocket. That she cared about ME so much that she put a little heart at the end of my name.
Unfortunately for her, a little heart at the end of my name and preserved preschool art projects won't make up for 23 years of abuse.
I can see my 16-year-old self writing it when I read it. In the corner of my bed, needle and pill bottles were all around me. I was sobbing so hard that I had to scrap my last paper because it was getting too wet to write on. While reading it, I noticed it smelled like my mom's old perfume. I couldn't help but laugh to myself because that further proved that she really did bleed into every single aspect of my life. Everything I've ever done, she has somehow made her own. I wonder if she kept all of these things not because I made them for her but because they reminded her that she made me. Did she ever think I'd find this binder? Is that why she put a little heart at the end of my name? *****<3 Surely that couldn't have just been for show.
It feels weird knowing that she's read this so much that it even smells like her. That she cared it about so much that she put it in the plastic pocket. That she cared about ME so much that she put a little heart at the end of my name.
Unfortunately for her, a little heart at the end of my name and preserved preschool art projects won't make up for 23 years of abuse.