I’m fed up! My mother is such a naïve woman, always being used and tossed aside by men.
I’m writing this because I have no one else to confide in…
I’m 19. I was born and raised in Liverpool.
I have no idea who my father is.
My mother has never mentioned him, and whenever I’ve asked, she would coldly respond:
– He doesn’t exist. Forget about him.
I grew up without a father, without a family, lacking a sense of comfort and warmth.
I got used to being alone.
But more than anything, I got accustomed to being second in my mother’s life.
She would forget about me for the sake of men.
Every time a new guy entered her life, I felt like I vanished into thin air.
She would preen in front of the mirror, selecting outfits, spending our last pennies on perfumes and make-up.
I would sit in my room, knowing I was no longer needed that day.
Then, after a few weeks or months, the breakdowns would begin.
She’d weep, complain, saying she’d been betrayed again, used once more, abandoned yet again.
And I’d sit beside her, listening, nodding, trying to comfort her.
But I knew it would only repeat in a couple of weeks.
She was oblivious.
She didn’t see how her actions were eroding my belief in relationships, in family, in love.
I learned from an early age that a man in her life would always take priority over me.
I became a stranger in my own home.
Whenever she’d bring home a new “suitor,” the phone would ring incessantly.
I understood—there was no longer a place for me in our house.
I stopped trusting her, ceased feeling anything for her aside from annoyance.
I became cold.
I could no longer endure her whining, nor could I comfort her after each fresh disappointment.
She’s an adult, yet she acts like a petulant child.
And I…
I feel like an old man.
Worn out from her tears, her empty hopes, her relentless mistakes.
And do you know what the scariest part is?
I don’t want any relationships.
I can’t even begin to imagine trusting someone.
I grew up in a house where love is just a lie, betrayal, and pain.
I can’t watch it anymore.
Sometimes she comes home drunk.
Sometimes she brings home “another one.”
I lie in another room and hear them laughing.
And inside, I recoil in disgust.
I feel sick.
I don’t want to hear this.
I don’t want to live like this.
But I have no choice.
My mother doesn’t think I’m suffering.
She cares only for herself.
The internet is my only solace.
Do you know what saves me?
Only the internet.
It’s the only place where I can express what I would never say out loud.
I feel free only when I’m behind the screen.
But this isn’t living.
And perhaps someday I’ll leave this house.
To escape hearing her.
To stop seeing her.
To avoid repeating her fate.
