The hardest thing for me was realizing that I had started to hate my mother.
Whenever that feeling rose inside me, I would remember something from years ago.
I would remember that freezing day when she carried me on her back all the way out of the city to visit my father’s grave.
I would remember how tired she had been.
How gently she had treated me.
Whenever I remembered that, I couldn’t hate her anymore.
But then I would look at the life we were living.
And I would hate her again.
My heart felt like that crescent moon in the sky.
For a brief moment, it could hold on to a little light.
But most of the time, there was only darkness.
More and more strange men began coming into my mother’s room.
My mother no longer tried to keep them away from me.
She didn’t even bother hiding what was happening.
Those men looked at me in a way that made my skin crawl.
Their eyes followed me wherever I went.
They looked at me like hungry dogs watching something they wanted to tear apart.
I understood what they wanted.
And for the first time, I began to understand how ugly the adult world could be.
I was still young, but I knew one thing for certain.
I had to protect myself.
I also began to notice that I was changing.
I was growing up.
There were things about me that were private and precious, things that I suddenly understood I had to protect.
I became painfully aware of the changes happening to my body.
Whenever I noticed them, I felt embarrassed and uncomfortable.
But along with those changes came a strange new strength.
It made me feel as if I could protect myself.
At the same time, I was afraid that this same strength could somehow destroy me.
I became a completely different person from one moment to the next.
Sometimes I was stubborn and fierce.
Other times I was frightened and helpless.
I had no idea how I was supposed to live with all these feelings.
Deep down, I still wanted to love my mother.
I had so many questions.
So many things I wanted to tell her.
So many times I wanted to ask her to comfort me.
But I couldn’t.
I had to stay away from her.
I had to force myself to hate her.
Because I was afraid that if I didn’t, I would lose myself completely.
I would no longer know who I was.
There were countless nights when I couldn’t sleep.
I would lie awake and think about everything.
I knew my mother could be forgiven.
She had been trying to survive.
She had been trying to keep both of us alive.
Maybe she really had no other choice.
But whenever I thought about the things she had been forced to give up, I couldn’t eat the food she cooked for me without feeling guilty.
My feelings kept changing.
One moment I felt sorry for her.
The next, I felt angry.
Then I would feel guilty for being angry.
It was like a winter wind.
It would suddenly die down, leaving me thinking the storm was over.
Then, without warning, it would come roaring back even harder.
All I could do was sit quietly and wait.
Wait for the bitterness.
Wait for the anger.
Wait for all those painful feelings to rise inside me again.
And I could never stop them.