~ I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe;
I told it not, my wrath did grow. ~
– William Blake
Today should have been like any other day – I would wake up, have breakfast, and settle down with a nice book – but it wasn’t. Today, I woke up and found my mom flipping through the secret pages of my diary. I wasn’t even all that surprised. This was the third time I’ve caught her red-handed, despite all my efforts to hide the book and encrypt the writing (which turned out to be too much of a hassle so I soon reverted back to the normal alpha-numeric system of documentation). Of course, I responded in a typical teenage fashion: screaming at the top of my lungs “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?”. She didn’t blink, didn’t act guilty and I could not find a trace of remorse on her face. When I ripped my diary out of her hands, she simply smiled, and walked away nonchalantly.
And yet she wonders why I despise her so much.
It isn’t because she neglects her motherly duties. In fact, she is pretty spectacular in the cleaning/laundry department. My hatred stems from something way more fundamental. I am almost halfway to 40, yet I am still treated like a 4 year old. Privacy at my home is as alien a concept as…well, aliens. I can’t talk on the phone without my mom listening on the extension; I have not received mail that hasn’t been opened, read and dissected word after word; I can’t go out with friends without subjecting myself to a third degree interrogation; nor can I get a simple haircut without her instigating a row about how it should have been 5 inches shorter.
Her need to control every aspect of my being has resulted in a broken communication medium. I can’t remember the last time I had a proper, heart to heart conversation with mother dearest. We never discussed periods, boys, relationships, or sex – things that normal mothers have with their daughters. In her old-fashioned frame of mind, boyfriends before the age of 21 is out of the question, so why bother educating me on something that won’t happen for another 3 years? Why bother talking to me at all when she can just poke her nose in my diary and read my most intimate thoughts?
Oh, and did I mention her paranoia complex? She thinks everyone is out to kill her – no joke. Needless to say, living with her is impossible. I can’t talk to her because every time she opens her mouth, I feel like putting a gun in mine. It is sadly ironic that I am blogging this because right now, I feel the internet, despite its vulnerabilities, is more private and secure than my own dear diary.