my mom is fukn weird

growing up, i never told any of my family members anything. i knew from about 5 years old that i could not trust any immediate family member with substantial information (i told my sister about my crush on nick jonas and she told my mom). if i had disclosed how i felt, a conversation i had, or something silly my friends and i did, it turned into a lecture. a phone search to see what else i am up to, because surely there is more. 

i kept every secret and thought to myself. there was no one in my life i could trust with what i truly was feeling that day, not even friends. thus began my relationship with journaling. i was able to put down all the heavy thoughts i could no longer bear to carry. from poetry to plain diary entries, the only place i could be vulnerable was between the covers of a 200 page journal. 

my deepest confessions and worst nightmares were documented and classified. i never thought twice someone would be able to inspect my brain without me present. that was until a couple weeks ago, i am hanging out with my mom in her room. i happen to look under her bed as she was doing some cleaning, lo' and behold every single diary i have ever had. 

i am stopped for a moment because i am trying to think of why this might be here. why would these be under the bed when she had all my other old books on the shelf with hers? why wouldn't she give them to me if i have been back home since february?

my mother has always had an odd relationship with me. one day we are best of friends, i wonder why we don't hang out more often. by dinner that day i am reminded the reason. i don't feel close to my mom whatsoever, nor have i ever felt that way. i have never confided in her except for the very first time i did. her response being "it's all in your head" put the nail in the coffin for me; any idea of communicating more than surface level was completely dead. 

she did not understand me and never would. 

she had very little to say about the journals being under her bed, so obviously hidden. it has been weighing on my mind since it has happened. every feeling, every thought laid on the page plainly for her to indulge. contemplation of suicide, peaks into my romances, even mentions of the devil herself. 

multiple questions run through my head: why did she do this? does she reread them often? has she read them cover to cover? is she vicariously living through me? how does she feel knowing things she was never meant or even allowed to know? 

i question where her morals lie. i can't look at my mom the same, anymore. the relationship we carefully mended over the past 5 years diminished with one glance. others may believe my response is melodramatic. how i wish i could feel that way, too. instead of feeling betrayal, mistrust, and mockery. she could have been my safe place to express myself but chose to invade it. 

there are many years left ahead of me, a good amount for my mother as well. curiousity gets the best of me when i imagine the journey of our future relationship. i invision a life without my mom and vice versa. i think about what i will choose.