Staying in where crisp white sheets offer some sort of comfort. outside the crisp white snow offers suffering. For once I feel calm enough to chose the calmer option. At least for now, Im content hurting myself by reading words I loath written by the woman I fear will be the death of me.
Next piece is about me.
Mothers journal has for the last 84 pages not mention the fact that she has a daughter, not until now. Seeing my own name in her writing is much like a slap in the face, a stab in the gut. About my weight her thoughts circle she used to be thin, legs like a ballet dancer and lean strong arms. She used to look like me but now I dont know. I simply don't know what has happend. She goes on for another page. I feel sick and strangely violated by this. This was written two years a go.
We all hate what we wish we had when others posses it. We're nothing but petty creatures in the night. I was never the right size for her life, for her standards. To thin, to fat. It was never about weight really. It was about a love we both had lost and tried to regain by hating. This Armed family has always had a peculiar Modus operandi.