Grant me the strength..
Grant me the strength to walk away when you fight me. Grant me the courage to say no when you attack me. Don't let me fall victim to your words of poison any longer. Oh please I beg to be set free.
One last prayer I had years before.
I didn't dare cry much less complain. I had many caps placed upon my head. I held back so much. I allowed so much. I watched as you berated me for everything I did. No those dishes were not clean, smack and crash. No that counter isn't clear.
Yet standing in a house that wasn't yours, I listened to everything you said. I did not want you to hurt me any longer.
The day you left was the day I became a teenager again. I had no fear anymore. You were thousands of miles away. Soaking up in the bayou of Louisiana. No more did I have to walk softly when you slept.
I could stay in my room. I could read. I could be anywhere in the house, never to worry about if I was "insulting" your space. Oh how I loved, cherished those few months.
Then the call came in, your attitude and seizures were ultimate high. Your soul couldn't handle the heat. I cried for almost a week. Knowing I was going to have to go back and bring you home. Such fear and rage entered me.
Felt sick. So sick.
I hoped so badly that the life you had back home would be good enough. That you would never cause damage on my skin, in my mind nor spirit again. Oh I begged, pleaded with God for another life. Anywhere, but here.
Yet the day I set foot on your campus. I gained all the terror from one minute in your presence. Oh how family didn't see. They couldn't see me tremble when you took my wrist, twisting it and slicing it with glass. Oh no.
I made up a story. Silly me. I broke your mirror. Your gleeful face. I cringe even today when I see it.
And still echoes of the days to follow. No more joy. Only beatings.
At last you found someone that could match your evil. Someone that love that in you. The spiteful behavior. You both thrived on it.
Yet you stood in my doorway once more. I gave mom the ultimatum. Surely you jest Mary.
Never looked back. Never came close to you alone. Save once. Nearly lost me and my unborn child. The hope that I drowned in the river. That you were so giddy about it. Mad that I was found wandering the streets. Not dead.
Gave me a beating, a few bruises and cuts. The day you said your second "I dos" I never came back into your life. The next time I saw you, my sister. You laid in your coffin. Scorched from the fire. So hard to recognize you.
Though I cried once. I cried for me. I cried that freedom became mine.
No one liked that I couldn't feel sad there. No one understood why I was grateful.
In fact I was labelled cold hearted. And yet had they known. Maybe. Just maybe they could understand why I was happy.
I settled that I could never say anything bad about you to family. For you are the precious child. The one that struggled and was desired. The one that everyone saw as brilliant.
Yes brilliant and sadistic.
Though time has healed the wounds. The scars and the memories deep inside of me are still fresh. Daily I am reminded that I am not you. That my death would have been better than yours. That you were more loving. More considerate.
Oh yet. I forget sometimes, for the sake of those around so no arguments arise.
Yet I am Mary.
Not Kate.
Nor will I ever want to be her. Ever.
One last prayer I had years before.
I didn't dare cry much less complain. I had many caps placed upon my head. I held back so much. I allowed so much. I watched as you berated me for everything I did. No those dishes were not clean, smack and crash. No that counter isn't clear.
Yet standing in a house that wasn't yours, I listened to everything you said. I did not want you to hurt me any longer.
The day you left was the day I became a teenager again. I had no fear anymore. You were thousands of miles away. Soaking up in the bayou of Louisiana. No more did I have to walk softly when you slept.
I could stay in my room. I could read. I could be anywhere in the house, never to worry about if I was "insulting" your space. Oh how I loved, cherished those few months.
Then the call came in, your attitude and seizures were ultimate high. Your soul couldn't handle the heat. I cried for almost a week. Knowing I was going to have to go back and bring you home. Such fear and rage entered me.
Felt sick. So sick.
I hoped so badly that the life you had back home would be good enough. That you would never cause damage on my skin, in my mind nor spirit again. Oh I begged, pleaded with God for another life. Anywhere, but here.
Yet the day I set foot on your campus. I gained all the terror from one minute in your presence. Oh how family didn't see. They couldn't see me tremble when you took my wrist, twisting it and slicing it with glass. Oh no.
I made up a story. Silly me. I broke your mirror. Your gleeful face. I cringe even today when I see it.
And still echoes of the days to follow. No more joy. Only beatings.
At last you found someone that could match your evil. Someone that love that in you. The spiteful behavior. You both thrived on it.
Yet you stood in my doorway once more. I gave mom the ultimatum. Surely you jest Mary.
Never looked back. Never came close to you alone. Save once. Nearly lost me and my unborn child. The hope that I drowned in the river. That you were so giddy about it. Mad that I was found wandering the streets. Not dead.
Gave me a beating, a few bruises and cuts. The day you said your second "I dos" I never came back into your life. The next time I saw you, my sister. You laid in your coffin. Scorched from the fire. So hard to recognize you.
Though I cried once. I cried for me. I cried that freedom became mine.
No one liked that I couldn't feel sad there. No one understood why I was grateful.
In fact I was labelled cold hearted. And yet had they known. Maybe. Just maybe they could understand why I was happy.
I settled that I could never say anything bad about you to family. For you are the precious child. The one that struggled and was desired. The one that everyone saw as brilliant.
Yes brilliant and sadistic.
Though time has healed the wounds. The scars and the memories deep inside of me are still fresh. Daily I am reminded that I am not you. That my death would have been better than yours. That you were more loving. More considerate.
Oh yet. I forget sometimes, for the sake of those around so no arguments arise.
Yet I am Mary.
Not Kate.
Nor will I ever want to be her. Ever.
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