May the World Here Be My Memory

Today I'm making sure to note every interaction with my egg donor that I find necessary to keep in mind. I know that spoke of my desire to keep all mention of her minimal and in a way this still is. I don't go out of my way to write about what she does until it involves my quality of life. One she's never been awarded for improving without the intention of displaying reality of her false motherhood.

I had planned to keep mentions of her minimal as mention in Cuteness Overload.

Simply put, hell no.

I find it irresponsible of me to simply look past our every interaction in silence. There is never a good one between us ever and I plan for every action to never be forgotten. So that every day, I can smile more in my own private moments of solitude. I'll never have to question, "What happens if my brain declines?" What if they claim I have bad memory? May the world here be my memory.

As any reader would already know, she's highly controlling.

At 21, I'm still subjected to power plays from her. Well why not when proximity equates to this?

Today she did her usual knock under the guise of food.

She could have texted me about the food.

She didn't.

Instead, she had already decided to surveil me.

She asked if I wanted to be served a dish she made. Her eyes were never on me. They were on the guest room she controlled but never entered — long gazes toward the floor, tracking. I already knew. Her control tactic this time was her random obsession with my room needing to be cleaned. This perhaps wouldn't be an issue if it weren't for someone of her type. I'm too old to be told to clean my room. I've never had any problems keeping any area clean. I was cleaner at an Italian boutique for over six months. But once someone of her stature gets even a sense of power over me, it never stops just there because there is no reasoning behind it. It's all small now. It always starts small but eventually, she'll need to eat or she'll starve and punish the famine.

I declined her offer with a simple "I'm good for the day."

I usually eat one meal a day.

Anything more than that has always brought me more attention than it was ever worth from people I don't consent to see again, not even in the afterlife.

She immediately tried to guilt trip me, believing I was a target that could even feel anything for her to control. She uses her facial expressions to get others to feel sorry for her whenever she doesn't get her way, and repeats it until she does. A successful coercion grants her a smile. She left without one. I find it odd how she can't hide how manipulative she is and yet others still grant her the benefit of the doubt. Her constant disregard for my autonomy isn't new. It's her unassuming form of dominance. A quiet reminder of how we're not the same in the ways that mattered. A wolf cannot be friends with a dog. One yearns for a loving home while the other kills it.

She tells and never asks. Always hiding behind the frame of asking so that the other party can seem rude or like a problem once they've declined her constantly. And if she's in a bad mood, she can simply lie to her husband and say she presented me with an order rather than a request. She has before. She always acts like she's considering your choice when in reality, she knows you have none. Asking is merely a formality — a setup so that saying no becomes the offense.

It's always performative, never with the honest intent of generosity. Something to reinforce the image that she's still a decent person to anyone foolish enough to think otherwise, particularly in front of her husband. As a trucker, he's gone long weeks from traveling out of state, but this time he's at the residence. She has never gone out of her way to knock on my door without some motive attached. Guest room — should I call it? After all, guest and loser were my nicknames growing up. Even from my former long-distance womb sharer.

I used to view her as a landlord, but she's a puppeteer. Liar to all and friend to none. A host who never intended for you to stay. I would never call her anything untrue in all of my sanity. Twenty-one years is too long not to get the drift. I don't wish to be like her strung subjects, who just mask the truth with their different views.

She's never wrong in her mind, thus all of her actions are right and are without shame. There is no room for mistakes nor guilt, only her constant choice.