The day of the crucification

 

I know it is cruel. Really, really cruel, but I really wanted to tell her that in this moment. I couldn't take her anymore. I know it sounds crazy; she is 10, and I am 39. But at this moment, I could see why Virginia Woolf wanted to put her head inside the oven, and at the very same time wanted to make her kids a PB&J. At this very moment, she is crueler than I am to me, I thought.

I wanted to tell her, maybe it’s a good idea she goes to stay with her dad for a couple of months. I could not take her cruelty anymore. All the fighting, and the trash talking, and the rebellion- I get it, I invented this rebellion, but I know my body-my mind cannot take it anymore. And I know for sure that I have created this- her, her attitude, her perspective towards the world- my responsibility was to draw on a blank canvas, and I have drawn an ultramodern, rule-breaking, avant-garde painting. But I cannot carry it with me anymore- it’s too heavy. It’s piercing my heart and my brain, and it’s burning my whole body- limb by limb.

She is 10. I am 39. Whatever she is, I modelled that for her. In a bigger sense, I am that. I am that to me. And yet, I cannot take that anymore. Sometimes, some days- I just want to take off. Suicide is a complicated word to utter, even inside one's mind. I think that is what my mind wants to babble out right now. I wish I could go away for a little bit.