It's the lies that hurt the most...

You know... I've been making this blog for a long time now, writing about times that I dwell on, things that make my heart ache for days until I've either written about them or found a way to make things better. I've created a place where my worst moments have a place to hide, a place to lie silently until they are needed, wanted. Most of these problems stem from my fantasy, but my fantasy stems from the problems I had with my Mother. She never stopped to question my actions, my thoughts, never stopped to ask why I might feel one way or another. Never stopped being absorbed in herself long enough to notice that I was in so much pain that I forced myself to believe my life was fake in order to be able to handle it.

She's selfish, conceited, and the type of person I fight every day to never become. I hated her for it. I still cannot forgive her... but I've tried to put it behind me. I've been more patient with her than I have ever been. I step back when I can't take anymore so I don't lash out, then I take a breath and step back into the flames. I fight to try to get along with her, despite her stressful attitude about every little thing, despite the arrogance and selfish behavior she portrays. I fight so hard to try and be the adult, the one who can take what she dishes out but be courageous enough to not fight back.

...but it's hard sometimes. It's hard. So very hard. For as long as I could remember, I could never trust her. Ever since the day she blatantly lied to me. I was laying with her, cuddling with a mother I had cried for weeks over because I missed her so much. I missed her to the point that I would stand staring out my window crying my eyes out thinking she would never come back. When she did, I asked her if she would ever leave me. She said no. I asked her if she would ever lie to me. She said no. Then she promised. A promise made to a little girl full of love. I know it sounds stupid to you, but that promise meant everything to me, it still does too. Not even a day later, however, I found her in her bathroom trying to hide cigarettes. She said straight to my face in that moment, that she wasn't smoking. Lies.

A few years back, I found her again, hiding in the back yard with a cigarette in her mouth. She said it was a moment of weakness. I was mad, disappointed, defeated, and just when I thought I could trust my mother again.... Lies.

Ever since then, I've been weary of the fact that every now and again she would come home smelling like cigarettes, smothered and thick in the scent. She would tell me she wasn't smoking.... I'm no fool. Just today I was coming home from work and I saw her figure rush into the house, then as I entered, she walked past the hall, looking back over her shoulder. I knew in that second all my doubts over the years were right. So tonight I looked in her purse for proof, and found exactly what I had hoped not to. My last bit of trust in her words holding tightly to that hope. A box of cigarettes and an electric cigarette lie hidden inside.

I've had enough of the lies. I'm tired of her hiding from me. If she's going to kill herself, I'd rather she do it without trying in vain to cover her tracks. So I've decided to confront her the next time I'm sitting next to her and she smells of cigarettes. Casually and callously I'll say, "You've never been good at hiding it from me, so if you are going to smoke, please, stop trying to hide it. I'm disappointed in you, I'll never forgive you, but please, it hurts more when you try to hide it. And when you've decided to stop for good, don't be afraid to ask for help."

No more hiding. No more lies.