When Your Mom Hates You

I’m just a liar.

Adobe Stock

When I was 6 years old, I was in the kitchen in our Baltimore home. I was with my sister and we were trying to make toast. We successfully managed to utilize the toaster and we had smeared butter, cinnamon, and sugar across the toast. However, being a six-year-old I was not keen to kitchen management or anything else for that matter. Being ignorant I placed the bag of bread on top of the toaster. The toaster was still hot and began melting the bag to the bread and releasing an awful burning stench. This was also the fateful moment that my mother would enter the kitchen and declare my fate for life.

My mother entered the kitchen at the moment when the smoke began pouring off the toaster. She snatched the bag from the toaster and held the half-melted bread and plastic in front of me and screamed, “Did you do this?”

As I stared into her angry scowl, I felt fear enter my body. I didn’t want to get hit with a belt and or anything else for that matter. In the wisdom of a 6-year-old I lied, “No.”

From that day forward I was designated a liar. Every year after that incident, I was deemed a liar. If there was a problem at school, then it was my fault because I was a liar. When the high school neighbor decided to rape me…well all the resulting issues of acting out, pissing the bed, nightmares, and all the other bullshit problems was just another lie from a bad kid.

When the animal children at school tormented me and bullied me, that was also a lie. I must have been accused of lying almost every day throughout middle school and high school. There was never a thought of, “Why would I lie?” or “Is he lying?”

And did I lie? Yes, many times because what the fuck did it matter. If I came home and told my parents that I had accomplished something, then that was a lie. If I screwed up and got in trouble, well it was because I lied. I’m not insinuating that being called a liar makes you a liar. I am saying that being called a liar makes you not give a shit.

I was written off by my mother at the age of six. I could relate many stories of pain and abuse, but the real rub is the incessant questioning and wondering. Year after year of waking up and in the confusion of emerging consciousness, I heard the inner voice questioning, “Why does my mother hate me?”

No matter how many books I’ve read, no matter how much therapeutic talk, and no matter the amount of effort I’ve committed to understanding; still I find myself wondering:

Why does my mother hate me?

But perhaps this all just bullshit because I am lying.