Don’t Eat Watermelon Seeds— Mother Knows Best

I had to re-enter into my own existence

Meghan Madness

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Photo made by the author on Canva

Mother knows best! Don’t you dare question the authority of the one who raises you! Respect your elders! She said. Trust me; I am your mother! – I did; trust her, that is. I trusted her with my existence because she was the one who created it. Who am I to question my maker? Please read that again and let it resonate in your mind. Mother knows best. Does she? Or are you simply addicted to the impulse of relying on instinctual and emotional trust?

Addiction is more potent than any virus. Addiction to stress, drugs, hope, or anything that leaves you desperately clinging to your last few shreds of sanity. That feeling of being so intensely attached to false hopes, in my opinion, is what has driven humanity into despair.

When we think of the word habit, we think of drugs, gambling, alcohol, or anything perceived as a decision of “self-harm.” We don’t consider what we have been adapted to be dependent on – being dependent on false hopes. My mom molded me into accepting her for what she was. The maltreatment we suffered was excusable due to her past; my enduring of her was a legitimate continuation of my “maker.” I became dependent on emulating her example and ultimately accepting that she was the reason I became what I thought my identity was. Unfortunately, the world as it is today, is a direct product of hand-me-down abuse. It has to stop. You are not a product.

My mother was an alcoholic. She died of organ failure a month before my daughter was born in January 2018. In the hospital, she kept asking for blankets because she was cold. I kept going back to the nurses, more blankets! Please, more blankets! There were never enough blankets to warm her. She was so small, less than 90 pounds. I saw the pain and regret in her eyes as I stroked her head and told her I was pregnant. I stared at her with more love than Aphrodite herself could conjure. I wanted so badly for her to tell me she was sorry, but instead, she frowned at me when I couldn’t convince the nurses to wheel her down to the parking lot so she could take a few more drags off of her Marlboro red. My mother loved me, just not in the way a mother should. I became her drinking buddy, her bestfriend, the one she would vent to when plastered and in need of…

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Meghan Madness

I Write about controversial subjects. Typically Religious.