I escaped superficiality, on experiencing the depth of pain. I was compelled to delve in, and find the source. Why does my mother hate me?
Each humiliating episode of sarcasm, rebuke or feigned disappointment stands sharp and clear in memory. At that time, I did not know what emotional or mental abuse meant.
Today, I’ve learned enough to understand.
It could be animosity carried over from past lives. It could be a narrow mindset about a woman’s place being in the kitchen, and her disappointment on seeing a personality blossom beyond that. It could be envy in negative forms.
Would I have bothered to delve into personality-related subjects, occult or mysticism, if she had been nice? Would I have helped others in a similar predicament?
I guess I owe something positive to an unhappy childhood.
If it’s darkness
we’re having, let it be extravagant.