I wrote my confession on another site once before, and I was almost cursed there. It’s been a couple of years, but nothing has changed. It didn’t get any easier on my soul, and I want to speak out and repent again. But no, I don’t feel like repenting.
I hate my kid. I, as a mother, do not love my child at all. When she was an infant, I took care of her, and I thought I truly loved her. I couldn’t help it if I was a mother.
But gradually, doubts crept in, eating away at my soul. And the older my daughter grew, the less love and more hatred she felt. By inertia, I still cared about her, worried about her. I did what everyone else did.
Once, when my daughter was 3 years old, she and I almost got hit by a car. And I suddenly thought: how peaceful and happy my life would have been if I hadn’t had time to move the stroller away from the approaching truck…
Once, when my daughter was 3 years old, she and I almost got hit by a car. And I suddenly thought: how peaceful and happy my life would have been if I hadn’t had time to move the stroller away from the approaching truck…
I remember going into her little girl’s bedroom, she should have been awake by now, and listening: what if she’s not breathing? After all, sudden infant death syndrome can happen. You listen not with fear, but with hope.
My daughter is no different from her peers: she is pretty, does well in school, socializes with friends, helps around the house, is not rude, and calls back if she stays out late. Friends and relatives praise her, teachers and tutor adore her.
My daughter’s love for me, for her mother, is the worst: because I hate her. And I don’t call her daughter, only by her first name. I don’t just dislike the way she touches me, I don’t like the way she dresses, what she says, how she moves, how she laughs. Everything about her irritates me. I want her to die and disappear from my life.
I don’t tell her that, but indirectly my attitude towards her is clear and the child feels it perfectly well. I can’t and won’t pretend, and I’m not trying to.
I’m serving the duty of raising a child like a prison sentence. I feed her, do her laundry, take care of her health. And I dream of pushing her into an independent life, away from me. But I realize that my time is also running out, that I will remain an old woman, alone and not wanted by anyone.
I don’t love her and I don’t want to love her. All I want is for her to be gone. I live in hell, and I don’t have the strength to get out of it. It’s not my fault that I don’t love my child. Or is it?
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Show comments Hide commentsYou say scary things. I’m sorry about your daughter, the worst thing for children is a parent’s dislike, and even hatred, the worst! My mother gave birth to me at 40, she did not want children until she was 30, as she was the eldest daughter in the family, and the youngest was dumped on her. But by the time she was 30, she wanted to have children, had a long treatment, and gave birth to me at 40. Dear author, her husband-my beloved father, died when I was 18 years old, and my mother was ill with a severe form of arthritis, if I was not, she would have to pay a stranger to live with her all the time, or strain relatives who have their own problems a lot. And since I am there, I take care of her, we put her on her feet now, had surgeries, but she still needs help all the time. Think about it-first you take care of her, and then she takes care of you, she will respond to you with love if you love her!