I'll always hate you. And I'm so glad I'm not what you wanted.
In the beginning, I’ll admit; I loved you. But I had no choice then. I loved you, because I knew that a son should love his mother, as the mother should always love her son. You gave me birth, you gave me life, and for that, I am grateful.
Even when you’d hit me, when you’d scream in my face and I would burst into tears, I still loved you. I was five. I ate up every word you said and every lie you told like chocolate chip cookies. When you’d smack my face, and come back moments later and say you were sorry, I believed it. And who knows; maybe you did mean it then. You hadn’t given up on me yet.
When I was around seven, and I was starting to do things on my own, and decide what I liked, that was when things went wrong. Because I wasn’t turning out how you wanted. Real boys didn’t draw all the time, they didn’t sing, they didn’t cry so easily. They played outside and got dirty and became strong. You didn’t want an artist or a musician. You wanted a rich, smart son. Like a doctor, or a dentist.
By the time I was ten, I’d started to make my own choices, to go against you. You didn’t like that. You tried to pin me down and show me: there were NO other options. It was your way, or no way at all. I’d be who you wanted, what you wanted. I had no part in it. I was only a puppet.
When I was thirteen, it was the end. I’d gone in the opposite direction that you wanted me to. I wasn’t Mr. Popularity. In fact, they all hated me. I had one friend that I was close to. You said it was unhealthy. Maybe it was, but I liked it that way. I loved music, and art; worthless, because they’d get me nowhere. I’d started dressing the way that I wanted to. T-shirts with the names of my favorite bands, black and red high tops. None of the shit everyone else wore. No. For me, there would be no Hollister, no Abercrombie and Fitch. That wasn’t me. That was what you wished I was.
So then, the fakeness went away. You barely tried anymore. You barely noticed me, unless it was to critique something that I had done. To tell me to change my clothes, or yell at me for trivial things that didn’t matter. People found you ridiculous. But you didn’t know. It was all right with you. In your mind you weren’t doing anything wrong. Of course, that’s no different than usual. Because of course, you can never do wrong.
Thirteen was a big year for me. The first time I kissed a girl. And after that, the first time I kissed a boy. I wonder what you would do if you knew about that? You already hate Frank, and if you knew the things we’ve done in my bed when you’re not around… it’s funny. Thirteen was big because I started self harming. It’s not about the pain for me though. I like myself well enough I suppose. No, it’s about the scars. I make one every time you anger me enough. So you know what you’ve done. Thirteen was the first time I drank. But mostly, thirteen was big because I finally realized what you wanted. You wanted perfection. You wanted the image of a perfect family for the world to see. I no longer fit the image. That was why you were so crushed when Mikey was diagnosed with ADHD. ADHD meant he could never truly be the perfect child, the golden child. Of course, you still try, so now he’s a mommy’s little boy. That’s why you’re still with dad. Because divorce would mean you weren’t perfect. I’m the flaw, I ruined everything. And that makes me happy. So I’ll keep being the way I am.
I’ll also admit, sometimes it bothers me, that you don’t care. Because like I said, I used to love you. It hurts that you never loved me; you just loved the concept of me, and what you hoped I’d become.
It’s like yesterday, as I sat at the table, drawing. I know I’m good. The vampire on my paper proved it. But you just came and stand over my shoulder, glanced at it, and then told me to bring you the laundry from upstairs. As I climbed the stairs, I heard you tell Mikey how wonderful his Pokemon drawing is. It just figures.
It’s like today. It’s Mother’s Day. The perfect day, you decide, to tell me I need to be more like a man. And I finally snap. Because I never complain. I never say anything to you.
“Why can’t you accept me? Why do you always make me feel so small? You make me feel like I’m your worst nightmare.”
You sigh, and lean back in your chair. “ I’m trying to find out how to say this gently, Gerard.” You sigh, and look up at me, obvious undisturbed by what you’re about to say. “You’re nothing like the little boy that I wanted.”
I’ve known that all along. There was no need to say it. And hopefully you know what I’m going to say.
“I fucking hate you. You’re nothing like what I wanted either.”
I see the anger in you eyes. There’s no pain. You don’t care that I hate you. You’re just mad. You stand, trembling, and smack me hard across the face. I fall to the ground, and I watch the blood drip out of my mouth onto the white carpet.
I’ll always hate you. And I’m so glad I’m not the son you wanted.
This is completely true for me. The whole damn story. With the exception of the fact I didn't get around to telling my mother I hate her. And the fact that I'm a girl, not a boy. But other than that, every word was true. This probably would've better if I'd written it sooner, but I've calmed down. I might do some more of this, if I need to get my anger out.
MCR changed my life, because it gave me a goal. It showed me what I want to be, which is everything she doesn't want for me. She hates MCR. Yay! Thank you MCR. You changed, and saved my life. I don't know where I'd be without them all.
And I never say this to you so this is for mom. FUCK YOU.