#helped build lofts and stairs help carry heavy couches and shit up very steep stairs and I was always on the bottom because I didn’t want

[daydreamsandcrashingwaves]

You don’t know when exactly it started. You were young, about eighty pounds soaking wet-you’d say if asked-short and thin. Delicate they called you. Blonde hair and blue eyes that shine up at them. No one says anything but you can feel their expectations, they look at you and see a beautiful perfect little girl with manners to match. You grind your teeth and scoff at it. No one pays you any thought.

You’re mother had called for you. A dresser that came up to your chest was drug out onto the deck, an unshift-able weight. You look at it with childhood annoyance, you know what is coming. She calls for a favor more frequently and dread starts trickling through the cracks.

When did it start? Before or after the divorce? Before or after. You think to yourself, it was always so. As soon as you were capable your role was decided. Tools and wood knew your hands and your body knew their weight. You had been eager to learn-be helpful at first.

When did it start? The insistence. The goading. You want to ask who she sees when she looks at you. She does not pity your sore muscles, your excuses. You tell yourself you must be strong. For her. You swallow your words. The dread grows.

When did it start? Was it an accident that happened one day? Or is this a consequence of doing what was asked of you? You do not know. It has always been.

These favors creep up on you like the tide and she drowns you in guilt before you can save yourself. You wonder if she will ever stop asking for help. You are tired and frustrated every time she comes to you. You now look for ways to avoid her gaze and it’s new. It’s scary. It’s liberating.

You are not responsible for what you do not have knowledge of, you reason. She cannot blame you. you did. not. know. She starts asking sooner. The chess game continues.

As you grow, realities become horribly clear. You cannot process the scene in front of you. You will not. Some of it you do not have the experience to manage, some of it you cannot believe is true. You shout at your instincts to quiet. It is not hard. You have been ignoring much more tenacious warnings, what is one more?

She loves you, you know she does, she says she does. You believe her.

More ‘favors’. You cannot turn her away. You bury you’re head. You must bide your time. You dig yourself deeper until the dirt plumes in displeasure as you grind the grit into your eyes. You wish to be blind to the patterns. You wish to be deaf to the sounds. If only your hands could keep their grip on the bucking beast just a moment longe-if only. Perhaps you could. Just. Be.

You are told to go and you do. You drift for the first time on your own. She will not bother to come find you here. (Sometimes as you lie in the dark you wish she would come surprise you for an afternoon, or insist on taking you to dinner because she misses the sound of your voice.)

It feels like coming up for air and it is foreign to you. Everything is. You reach out to touch the person in front of you and startle. In you’re self preservation you have forgotten yourself. When did it start?

You’re a little girl in the sun, on the deck, shifting under your mothers infrequent gaze. She’s here. For a moment. Your emotions are bursting, you bounce with pride and the desperation to prove yourself, so you do as asked. You help her and are convinced you are her only option. Your body futilely tries to mirror her much larger one. You both grip stained wood.

When did it start?