Letting the Anger Speak

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I keep coming back to it.
The same wound. The same grief. The same rage.

And I think that’s because I was never allowed to feel it. Not really.

I spent years trying to convince myself it wasn’t that bad — that my mother was just a bit difficult, or misunderstood, or trying her best. But the truth is, she wasn’t a mother to me. She was controlling, manipulative, cold, and emotionally dangerous.

I remember when I had my bathroom redone. I chose someone I trusted — my friend’s dad — because the person she recommended didn’t call back. But even then, she couldn’t stand it. She questioned his workmanship, nitpicked every detail, made me second-guess myself — when in reality, he did a good job. He was fair, honest, and reliable.

And now I see it for what it was.
It wasn’t about tiles.
It wasn’t about standards.
It was about control.

Because I was making decisions without her.
Because I was becoming my own man.
And that terrified her.

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I’ve realised something else, too — something harder to admit.

I think she liked it when I was unwell.
When I was hospitalised, psychotic, sedated — I was easier to manage. Easier to manipulate. Easier to keep under her thumb.

That is not love. That is possession.

She didn’t want children. She admitted that, laughed it off like it was funny. Like my very existence was a joke. And yet, somehow, she still thinks she’s entitled to my time, my energy, my loyalty — after everything.

She’s not.

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Every time I revisit this, I feel the hate rise up again.
And yeah — I hate her.
That’s just the truth of it.

It’s not graceful. It’s not poetic.
But it’s honest.

I spent decades trying to protect her image — in my mind, in the world, even in my own healing. But the more I see her clearly, the more I understand just how damaging she was. How much of my soul she tried to own. How many parts of myself I had to bury just to survive.

And now?
I’m angry.
I’m done.
And I don’t need to censor that anymore.

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Letting this out isn’t staying stuck. It’s releasing.
It’s unhooking myself from the shame and the silence.
It’s saying:

“I didn’t deserve that. I was never the problem. She was.”

And if I circle back to this again, that’s okay.
Because it wasn’t one wound — it was a thousand small cuts over decades.

This is me healing.
This is me reclaiming.

And this is me saying — finally —
Fuck her.