For a long time, I felt that to stop loving her was the only way I had to love myself
My mother was very beautiful and very clever, like all mammas, so I loved her and hated her. I began to hate her when I was around 10, maybe because I loved her so much that the idea of losing her threw me into a permanent state of anxiety, and to calm myself I had to belittle her.
Sometimes she seemed to me to be beautiful and clever just so that everyone would see me as ugly and stupid. I couldn’t think any thought of my own; I had only her thoughts in my mind. I felt oppressed, tormented by her mania for order, by her outmoded tastes that suffocated mine, by her idea of just and unjust. For a long time, I felt that to stop loving her was the only way I had to love myself – even to have a myself to love.
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