Such Sharp Teeth

by Rachel Harrison

when I exhale, I follow the smoke up, up, and there’s the moon, high and silver and smug as a motherfucker. The sight of it rattles my bones with such violence, but I can’t look away. Because I can see its face. And it can see mine. It sinks itself into my eyes and it drags me toward it, demanding obedience. A mad mother.

“Life isn’t meant to be lived alone.” “It is,” I say. “By design.”

“Fine, I guess. She picks on me, and I know it’s coming from a good place, but it doesn’t matter. We’ve talked about this. I made excuses for her for so long. Once the spell’s broken, it’s hard to see anything else. The manipulation, the selfishness, the immaturity.”

understanding someone and accepting them are two different things. One doesn’t guarantee the other.

Before I knew it, I was telling her about my past, about my mother, about how I had been raised. When I started saying these things out loud, that’s when I realized how fucked-up it all was. She recommended books. Books about being the child of immature parents, about healing from trauma. It gave me all this perspective I didn’t know what to do with. And it hatched this anger. There was suddenly so much of it. Too much. I didn’t know how to experience it. I didn’t know how to hold it, where to put it. When you’re sad, you cry. When you’re happy, you smile, you laugh. But what do you do when you’re angry? Not just mad, but filled with this ugly, consuming rage? And the thing is, women aren’t allowed to be angry. Nobody likes a mad woman. They’re crazy, irrational, obnoxious, shrill. I did what I could to control it. After about six months, I stopped going to therapy and stopped answering my mother’s phone calls, her texts. I’ve done my best to avoid her the past two years, because she sets me off.

The conversation she’s begging me for isn’t for my benefit; it’s for hers. She wants to be absolved of all guilt without admitting any wrongdoing. What I want is for her to apologize and take responsibility. I’m not going to get what I want. I know this. So any conversation would only exacerbate my anger.

There’s no winning. The trauma is either your fault or it’s a gift. It’s either You should have done this to stop it or Look what good has come of it! If you don’t get over it, why can’t you get over it? Why can’t you get past it or learn how to cope? Or if you do find some way to move on with your life in a socially acceptable manner, then you’re so brave and so strong, and aren’t you amazing? Let’s applaud you for moving forward while there’s a knife at your back.

Mom can’t accept any responsibility. She can’t accept responsibility for letting him into our house, for not listening to me, for not paying attention, for not being more supportive in the aftermath. She couldn’t live with herself. She can barely live with herself now. Why else would she say something like that? Why else would she keep trying to rationalize, to justify what happened? I know I’m not getting an apology. I know that it’s never going to come, that I’m never going to get what I want from her. She doesn’t have it to give. And still, I’m waiting. I’m hoping.

I don’t think anyone has ever been in love with me. It’s only ever been attraction. That’s fine. It’s fine.