I can't remember the age I was, when I began sleeping with the knife under my pillow. But I felt so old, so tired and so alone. Early teens I think. Life had proven itself to be one long tunnel of pain, of rejection, of disappointment. I was so depressed, but didn't realize it. I had to survive. And I was convince my mother was going to snap, one night, in her fits of manic depressed rage, and kill me. And who would know? Who would care? She would play the victim and I would be dead. So, after another cussing, staring, evil eyeing and late night door kicking and attacking, i tucked the pillow under my knife.

The first one was small. It had to be one she didn't notice, or she would surely beat my ass for having it. I knew I couldn't use it, wouldn't use it. BUt at least I could finally get to slepp, my hand tightly gripping its handle. Gainin security from that tiny knife.

Years later, I upgrade that knife. THis was after the physical fights, the thick tension, the confusion. I wasn't scared anymore. I didn't care what happened to me anymore. I wanted ot leave, to espace, but didn't know if I would be able to. So I put a real knife under my pillow after that. My silent dare for her to keep hitting me, assaulting me, terrifying me. But, as God would have it, she simply stopped coming in the middle of the night.

These are the Mother's Days images I have. And I feel guilty and lost, becuase who thinks about this during mother's day. For others its flowers and lover, affirmation and comfort. Their mother. And my memory its lopsided, its what I recall. There were days and weeks of peace, well, not peace, but a silent resolved tension. Without being cussed out and frowned upon. Normal days when I would socialize and entertain and enjoy myself. Separate from her. Because that's what I did to stay sane, I stayed away as much as I could.

But , of course, its unfair. Because she was a mother. She sacrificed for me. She loved me, as best she could. We didn't have much and she didn't give me much, but she didn't put me out, didn't let the world devour me. She was suffering the Prozac roller coaster, so she did the best she could do. And I know that. Or, at least, I need to believe it, to believe there was a reason other than mental illness that would make a person could be so cold to her own child.

But as we approach mother's day, I find my memoirs of the good times obliterated by the sheer terror of a moment, horrified by the shouts and slams, the threats and verbal hate. She would tease me, taunt me, anything to get me to respond, to justify attacking me. Ain't that a mother?

She is different now. At least, I am different and don't have to be subjected to it anymore. But Mother's Day. Mother's Day always leads me to this space of loneliness, of isolation, of longing for a mother who thought me lovable.