Spoonfuls

It's been over a month since she knocked the wind out of me with the news as I was mixing sugar into my coffee. That he'd moved on, or rather, that he'd kept moving.

It's been over 2 months since my mom sat me down on the couch and explained to me that this world is a hard, sick place.

It's been a week since I began to try to escape my pain in a way society views is acceptable.

He told me that he doesn't approve of my escape. I wanted to tell him, as a joke, that I was escaping from the pain he left me with by moving on, never explaining it, by making me ask. And it's not like he had any obligation to tell me. I felt I was obligated to hear the words from his lips. And I guess it was fine. Except, it wasn't really fine. Nothing was explained. I wanted more than a goodbye, I wanted an explanation.
It doesn't help that it wasn't even really a goodbye, it was more of a "See ya later." So that he'd always be there. And he'd have the explanation that was probably something I didn't want to hear: That I wasn't pretty enough, smart enough, funny enough, interesting enough, thin enough, curvy enough-that i wasn't good enough.

And I keep remembering my mother on that couch. My mother told me the world was not a nice place. My mother told me the extent of how life was not fair. My mother told me to guard myself, because I was fighting against the restraints she used to protect me.

My mother. How right she was. How right she is. As she scoops spoonfuls of sugar into her coffee, with sad eyes and a slight frown, I wonder if she's seeing my future. I wonder if she's seeing how I will hurt myself. I wonder if she believes I will be able to escape my share of heartache. I wonder if she wonders if it's too late.