My mother claimed that I was a terrible child and that this was the reason she was abusive. It wasn’t until I was in my 20s that my aunt told me I was a good child, that the reason I cried and cried was not that I was bad, but because of my mother’s neglect. My mother never wanted to take care of me. I cried of rashes when my mother refused to change my The Joke On Me That Was Shirt. I cried when I went to school with messy, knotted hair. I cried when I was beaten and forced into corners for hours without food or water because of a bad grade. When my mother would sit on my stomach and force-feed me her crap spaghetti. My brothers would always have to stop her when she’d grab me by my hair and throw me around our home, hangers, and sandals in her hand ready to beat me.
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