mazarinefv

I've thought about it and thought about it and the only way I seem to be able to find forgiveness in my heart for the vulture that gave birth to me is to think about love as a finite. Were she to have love in her heart would I be capable of loving even those who have hurt me the most? Were she capable of understanding the love she has received her whole life, would others be able to see it so clearly on their own? Were she not so filled with hatred, would others find themselves burdened with it? Maybe that's her role in life. An explanation of her hurtful and cold existance. She's a lesson as to what one would not wish to become. Bitter and angry. An actress. A gold digger. She never looked so focused as when she got her hands on a few of her father's insurance papers. Never looked so satisfied. Up until the moment my grandmother informed that fucking cunt that the company had gone belly up and what she was looking at was worthless. I hate that I found joy in that one moment. A deep sense of satisfaction knowing that this woman, searching for the money before we'd even picked out the coffin, showed her naked and true self. Any intelligent person can easily see through these charades that both her and her brother have put on for this special event, but that doesn't fix how I feel. I remember clearly, with every ounce of my being, why she is not a part of my life.

There was a time when I begged her to remember that I was her daughter. When I gave up I finally saw who she was. She had given up the responsibilities of being a mother long before giving up custody. In doing so she seems to always forget that she lost the privilages as well. The moment she removed herself, the moment she told me she didn't love or want me she became just another woman. One who had hurt me just enough to not even be considered a peer.