I didn’t call you on Mothers’ Day

I didn’t call you on Mothers’ Day.

What’s a “mother,” anyway?
A role? A job? An entitlement?
Whatever. It was my 30th birthday.
I was busy enjoying the company of my boyfriend’s family.
Drank spiced eggnog vodka. Cracked jokes. Loosened up.
Yeah. I was having a blast. Felt good.
Didn’t think of you. Your birthday is in June.
This day was mine.

I didn’t call you on Mothers’ Day.

You wouldn’t let me spend nights away.
You restricted how I associated with the world beyond my bedroom.

“Read books, forget friends. Earn your right to be in this world, or you’ll be lonely. Never forget you are alone. The only way to grace for you is suffering.”

When you conceived me, your world was rocked too hard for you.
Your father died. Your father-in-law died.

You were so sick with me in your womb that you isolated yourself from everyone to lay in bed.

You spoke of demons. You said you were haunted by demons. You spun tales at me of how you’d be attacked by demons while pregnant with me. How you wanted your life to be over. You couldn’t handle your torment, and it was my fault.

“Demoness,” you’d indicate to me. You had two miscarriages before me, so you decided God was testing you by giving you guardianship over a demoness. Turn me to His ways, you thought, then you’d be free. Redeemed. Welcomed Home.

I wasn’t your daughter. I was your job.

I didn’t call you on Mothers’ Day.

You stopped my lessons in Sanskrit that your mother-in-law found solace in.
Her husband was fond of ancient ways. Your father loved learning of all kinds.
Your mother was monitored by you to not speak of your father.
I wouldn’t know until many years later, he called me his Titania.

I didn’t call you on Mothers’ Day.

Finding nothing to satisfy you in Dad’s Hinduism, you waged an all-out rebellion.
Threw your allies and friends and companions away.
No one told you that you were forced to adopt a religion you didn’t identify in.

Our joined family was made up of a variety of religions that coexisted peacefully.
We found ways to respect one another, to admire similarities and differences.
Hindus. Muslims. Christians. Buddhists. Deists. Atheists. Agnostics. Spiritualists.
I added Wiccan to that list.

We were harmonious.

I didn’t call you on Mothers’ Day.

You forgot your father’s lessons, “An open mind does not mean a blank slate. You can entertain thoughts without accepting them.”

A woman content to pretend domesticity and subservience, despite encouragement to be herself in a multi-faith and interfaith setting, took out her interpretations of the same Bible we all respected and wielded it as a weapon of war.

“You little demon whore,” you challenged me, “join me in my Christ’s true family or go to Hell like all these sinful Satan-worshippers.”

What was I supposed to do? My own family preached mother’s love as the greatest love that led one to God. So I went along. Pretended to feel that fervent fire you had for a God of your beloved television preachers’ design. If I objected to anything, applied my inclination to voice my discomfort, you silenced me. If I didn’t swallow your virtues like the expired medications you kept in the kitchen cupboard, then I was against you and God. That I deserved eternal punishment if I didn’t follow in your footsteps.

I wasn’t just of your blood. You wanted me to be your identity.

I didn’t call you on Mothers’ Day.

In your eyes, only you were true, honest, and overfull of goodness.
A living saint with practised humility.
A woman of sacrifice, of virtue, of holiness.
Purity earned and become incarnate.

Lark came to me. You set to work at once to change my story.
You forced me to lie to the world, lie to anyone I thought I could trust.
You forced me to drink concoctions that purged my body, forced me at exorcisms.

You humiliated me by making me bathe naked in a lake at night.

You didn’t listen to my protests of your spiritual diva friend rubbing strangely scented liquids into my body, even in areas nobody was permitted to touch. You decided I was a demon whore that shouldn’t be enjoying astral intercourse with her bound husband, so what were humans touching me in comparison? I couldn’t have to withhold consent because I was a minor, a whore, a girl.

I didn’t call you on Mothers’ Day.

Anyone who cared for me was your enemy.
My godmother was cut off from me and made yours.
Your elder cousin offered me sanctuary, you asserted your rights as a mother.
You punished me by casting my pet birds, one by one, into neglect and the wilderness.
You blamed me for leaving my budgies to find a moment of peace.

I was responsible for everyone who suffered.
Everyone who died, if any hint of connection to me, was my fault.

Because I was your demoness. Your curse.
Your task to see your Heavenly Father again.

“Demon whore,” you said to me when nothing else worked.
So you decided I had to be schizophrenic, Lark was too powerful for you to stop.
You shamed me for having love and companionship in ways you wouldn’t approve.
So you took me to the doctors I loved more than you, and made your case.

I was still in the age of minority.
Mothers are exalted above fathers and anyone else who could object.
Dad couldn’t rescue me in time.
And so began my descent into the perils of mental illness.

I didn’t call you on Mothers’ Day.

You chose divorce, because you refused to live in the same house as a Hindu.
Afterwards did you spin tales of domestic abuse, your virtues, and affairs.
Anyone not in agreement was your potential assassinator.

I didn’t call you on Mothers’ Day.

You stole $5000 from me to preserve your living standards.
You admitted this in court, I had no idea until I was told by Dad.

You issued me an order: “Apply for life insurance. When you’re dead, I can pay for your funeral and have a little money left to live on.”

You spent investments made in my name.
Now you wanted my death money.
You already had me paying your bills and rent so you could survive mortgage payments.
You were free to use multiple credit cards.
You spent on anything that reminded you of Heaven.
You gave your money to those television preachers and causes you found worthy.
You forgot me. You forgot my brother.
Why should I call you “Mother?”

I didn’t call you on Mothers’ Day.

I learned about being myself as a woman from the men throughout my life.
I hate chitchat about mothers being the most important person for women.

I learned about puberty from library books.
I learned about the true power of submission from Andrei.
I learned about maternal love from my High Priestess and my therapist.
I learned about sisterhood with Chizuru and my sister-in-law.

I’m proud to call my High Priestess my real mother.
It doesn’t matter that she’s only one year my elder.

Her biological daughter, after nearly nine years of separation from me, calls me her big sister. I held her once after her birth, and she still knows me, says I’m hers. Heck, she took Andrei’s side when teasing and tickling torture went on during our visit.

I learned about womanhood from others not you.
So I didn’t call you.

May 14th, 2017: This prismatic rabbit turned 30 years old.

I didn’t call you on Mothers’ Day.

You were likely in church and spending the day absorbed in your evangelistic TV programs. Your mission to convert the world is the most important thing.

You left me behind. You forgot me.

What does it matter to you, anyway?
I’m the demoness come to torment you, you preached.
And good Christians, you said, have no sympathy for the Devil or his children.
I’d be slain in the Spirit, you vowed. Purified and made holy.
And then you’d have your reward.

I guess you failed, eh?
You gave up your fight. You left me behind.
I’m living my life far away from you.

Lark kept his promise to find me, and he was right.
“I will return for you in a form you would not expect.”
Hahaha. White hair and flashes of golden eyes.
Hikaru, Shinju, Garnet, Kyria … sorry, Mom?
Your demoness has her mate and her brood.
Whoops, you just did an epic fail.

I didn’t call you on Mothers’ Day.

May 14th will for me, always be, My Bunny Day.

Photo on 2017-05-20 at 1.45 AM
Me and the ball chain version of Mixchan, a Pote Usa Loppy character from AMUSE.

2 thoughts on “I didn’t call you on Mothers’ Day

  1. Lunar rabbit is a rabbit, never was a demon. I know my kind, you were never one of us damned beings.

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