Too Much

I’m not sure when my love faded or when it fell flat on its flimsy face. When I was small, I must have loved her. It seems that children know how to love without analyzing. Her tone was hard with the mockeries she played off as mere amusements. She tried to purchase my devotion with her gifts. Did I resent her? The way she would drive us out of the house with her tirades. The way she would glare. The way she would call mother incessantly until my mother finally picked up the phone. Mother was not permitted to hang up until grandma was done, the blame lingering in the air so that mother cried over the juices of sour guilt, spilled for the sake of appeasing the oppressor. I might have loved grandma’s perfectly styled hair and shapely legs. The way she laugh-cackled. The way she dodged accountability, complained about her pain, told her supposed loved ones that they were never enough. She was too much.

I married my grandma. That’s what my mother says.

I’m not sure when my love faded or when it fell flat on its flimsy face. When I was married to him, I must have loved him. It seems that women in general know how to love despite the situation. His gravelly drone berated beneath the guise of humor. He tried to buy my obedience with gifts. Did I resent him? The way he would drive me out of sleep with his lectures. The way he would go on and on, prodding me incessantly until I finally responded. I wasn’t allowed to stop listening until he was finished. Blame lingered in the air so that I cried over the juices of sour guilt, spilled for the sake of appeasing the oppressor. I must have loved his clever eyes and toned biceps. The way he rhymed. The way he evaded accountability, complained about everyone else’s sins, told his supposed loved ones that they were never enough. He was too much.

Abuse is a switch that can shut off love.

by Jennifer Burnside