They say the first love you know
comes from your mother.
The first memory I have of my mother
is being out shopping with her
when I was two and a half years old
and trying to tell her that I needed a wee.
She shouted at me in the middle of Argos,
told me to cross my legs
and not disturb her again.
I ran out of the shop in tears
and proceeded to piss myself
in the middle of the street.

My mother has never loved me.
She has resented me from before I was born
and this has only got worse with age.

At the age of five,
when I was being bullied by older boys,
she shouted at me for ruining my brand new coat –
when I had been pushed into a muddy puddle
and I spent the rest of that winter with just a cardigan.
At the age of 13,
when she found out I was bi,
she kicked me out.
At the age of 15,
when I weighed around six stone,
she called me fat and disgusting
and told me no one would ever love me.
At the age of 17,
I told her my boyfriend had hit me
and she told me I probably deserved it.
At the age of 20,
she walked out on me and my dad,
and told me his heart attack was my problem
because I had caused it.
At the age of 23,
I was diagnosed with cancer
and she has not been there for me
at all.

“You have a face only a mother could love –
but even I can’t manage that!”
is what she says while she’s looking at me.

Sometimes I wonder
if my mother had been a little kinder,
maybe I would be a little stronger,
have a little more self worth,
be less of an easy target for abuse.