Memoir Part 3 (last piece)

Thanks A Lot

A few days before Christmas my mom told me that she wished she had given me up for adoption, and that she should’ve gotten rid of me when she had the chance. She said that the last 15 years of her life had been a waste of time. I was so hurt, angry, and upset.. I looked her dead in the eyes. My face was as empty as a bottomless pit, and I told her “I wished you had.” And then she kicked me out of the house for four days, and made me come back on Christmas.. That was the night I felt good when I cut. I put the razor to my leg five or six times in the same spot. I was so mad and hurt and I was crying that when I didn’t see any blood, I couldn’t feel the sting. I lost all control. after that.

It’s an addiction. Like drugs, or alcohol. Just like any other addiction. It’s because it feels good. When you blow up a balloon, all of the hot air rushes in and expands the outside of the balloon. It stretches and pushes against it. It puts stress on the balloon.. And when you pop it, and break the outside of it, the hot air is released. The stress is gone. And when I cut myself, my balloon pops.. The stress is gone. It just rushes out of my body. And I feel better for a little while.

My mom still doesn't know about half of this. She doesn’t know about my blog, she doesn’t know about me or Caton cutting. She doesn’t know about any of it.. And if I did tell her, or she found out, my memoir would end here. I would not be able to write another one, or ever see the light of day. When my mother tells me she hates me, or that she doesn’t like me, it die a little more inside.

Ever since that first summer, when I came back, I was changed. Inevitably. A person cannot endure something so profound and horrific and emerge half the same as they were before. To me, at the end of the day, I’m not me. I’m not who you think I am. I am not a person. I am just sitting here. Waiting for someone to take this exhausted, beaten, broken body, and give it life. Inside this shell, there’s

nothing but a hole. A hole that can never be filled. The story continues, as it always does. :Like they say in the theater, ‘the show must go on.”

Fin.