She asked what kind of mother I hoped she would be? I dont know. Does it even matter now? Does it even make a difference it’s been 23 years since I’ve moved in with her, back when I was 2 months shy of 11. The vulnerable little me. The one who needed nurturing, only to be disappointed that it would be a dish served cold, or a dish not served at all. Her heart was made of stone, I remember I kept thinking that as a kid. No, she wasn’t a bad mother, she was just neglectful. Some say that causes trauma to a child. I thought I was being independent. I thought I was learning to rely on myself. It was hard yes, I cried and I cried a lot. I cried so many times and she would just stare at me like this thing that has feelings. How dare you even feel, kinda look. How dare you be so weak. So I learned to pretend like I don’t have them anymore. Of course it took practice. Years of practice. I was groomed into becoming super Aquarius- super detached. Now I look back and wish I had my feelings back. Now I look back and wish that I could learn how to feel again. Where have my feelings gone? I thought I got rid of them. But that’s not possible because for us humans that’s not possible. We can deny feelings all we want but they never truly go away. They just become tucked under a thick layer of ice and when that ice melts, ❄be ready for a volcano,🌋 because feelings that have been hidden this long don’t show up without letting themselves be known. That explains my mom’s anger. Her dish breaking episodes on Thanksgiving mornings. I’ve gone numb to them by now. But this time I couldn’t handle it, that’s why I didn’t bother going. I booked the flight though. Just didn’t get on the plane. This is hard for me to write, harder than I thought.