When I was about 6 or so, my mother had an allergic reaction to some shellfish in my grandparents house. I was told to go next door and get a neighbor to take us to the hospital, which I did. I’ve thought back to that day countless times, about what would’ve happened had the neighbor not been home, or she hadn’t gotten to the hospital in time. A few years prior to this, I’d gotten very sick and dehydrated, and had to be taken to the hospital, where I stayed for who knows how long because perception of time means nothing to a 4 year old. All I can really recall about my time spent in the hospital was that they played The Lion King nonstop on a VHS and I don’t think I’ve watched that movie since that time because I’m so fucking tired of it. I almost wished I could’ve died just to escape having to watch the fucking Lion King again, but, that’s a rant for another post.
Sometimes, when things get hard, when things get so hard they feel like I can’t go on, I think back to that point in time and wish that I had just died there, in that hospital bed, as a 4 year old girl. Then, I think to when my mother nearly died, and I get mad at myself because I…I sort of wish she had. Allow me to explain. Had my mother died, she never would’ve met my stepfather, they never would’ve gotten married, and my life wouldn’t have become the abusive hellhole it became for 15 long years. Things could’ve been so different. I might not be that broken. Sure, who knows where I might’ve ended up. I could’ve ended up in a foster home of a couple who fuck dead goats in their basement, you never know, but I would be lying if I said I don’t think about it sometimes. But, despite my anger towards a family who turned against me, who hurt me so much as a child, and despite never being in good standing with her, I cannot in good conscience say that I wish she had died, because it was that life that made me who I am today. I’m not saying that I’m happy with what I went through, but it made me into a person who’s faced adversity and abuse and came out the other side, beaten, damaged, but still managing to keep going.
The fact that my mother lived, the fact that she married this man and that my adolescence was as terrible as it was, it made me me. No, “what didn’t kill me didn’t make me stronger”, despite the ever popular saying. I’m not stronger because of what I’ve endured. If anything, I’m weaker because of it, however, that weakness has made me want to become stronger, and keep going. As I said in my medium article, there’s a bizarre attachment to being broken. A sort of “I don’t wanna be fixed, this is who I am!“, but why am I so attached to being broken? Where’s the logic in that? So like I said, no, it didn’t kill me, but it didn’t make me stronger. I’m the only thing that can make me stronger, by choosing to become stronger.
Hey, let’s put it this way. Family isn’t always there for you, but you are always there for you, so at least you aren’t really alone.
Hey. I’m Maggie. If you liked this thing, you might like some other things I do, like my webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, or “Sad Party” where I encourage others to share their sadness so others can not feel so alone. I also write at Medium from time to time. You can also donate to my SquareCash, it’d be very appreciated. Thanks for reading!