I'm not sure if you are still alive. We haven't spoken in at least five years. But that's okay. That's what I needed. I've moved on. I had to because you abused me.

While abuse affects us all differently, it does and will change us. Some internalize it, and some direct it outwards. All living things sense mistreatment. It has an impact on some aspect of their being. We are no different. We are not wired to suffer at the hands of another. Whether active or passive, direct actions or neglect, abuse is still abuse.

I was her scapegoat. She took her anger, confusion, and rage out on me. All I ever wanted was her devotion and tenderness. Eventually, I only wanted out.

I was born with a heart desiring to receive and give affection. My mother withheld her love while she rejected mine. I needed to be cherished. I was craving the warmth and compassion my mother had for my father and siblings. But that wasn't possible when it came to me. Her capability was limited to indifference, hostility, and hatred; the blood that coursed through her veins ran cold.

The day she told me she "didn't care if I lived or died," was one I will never forget. How could I? She gave birth to me. She had room for me in her womb but not in her heart. She made sure I knew that I was "a mistake meant to be aborted." Her cruel, callous comments forever crippled my expectations of someday earning her love and acceptance. Without a foundation built on a mother's trust, my life was a house built over a buckling basement. My mother ensured I knew I was unworthy and unwanted. I had nothing to offer and nothing to lose. I was worthless.

I came to a crossroads. I voyaged in one direction and veered from another. I refused to become my mother. I could not and would not cause anyone or anything pain. I would become the opposite of her in every way, especially one; she loved herself while I hated myself. I was my victim of choice for self-disdain and abhorrence. Every aspect of me was defective, damaged, deficient, and undeserving.

Since I never experienced love from my mother, I held onto the only thing she ever gave me; the sense of worthlessness and hopelessness. Directing these feelings inward gave me a familiar sense of remorseless rejection and abandonment. Unsuccessful attempts to end my life were eventually followed by intense therapy.

In retrospect, my mother brought out the best in me. In my early childhood, she gave me a "toolbox" filled with all the instruments I would need to perpetuate self-destruction and demise. But the most useful tools would come later on.

Over time, her incessant beratement led me to find a tool called "tenacity." My perseverance and determination overruled my self-hatred. I refused to become like her. Continuously trying to make a difference gave me more options than giving up. While consistently meeting her escalating, harsher abuse, I soon found the other missing tool- fire.

She never realized that all of her belittling, humiliation, and sadism would ignite a spark within my soul. As her inhumane treatment escalated, this spark grew to become a flame. It illuminated my path to freedom while it fueled my escape. Soon it became a lighthouse to my healing. Despite darkened skies, I remained focused on the light she inadvertently lit.

Mom, escaping from you gave me a fire to light the way for others to heal from their abuse. My tenacity shows them wind-torn sails won't impede them from reaching the shore. Hurting hearts heal. Suffering souls subsist. But you- you, and your wrath have made more of a difference than you will ever understand. You inspired the fight song sung by many who have endured abuse like yours towards me. Your vile vengeance birthed a tremendous tenacity in me.

I'll bet you never expected me to become stronger without and despite you. When I left, I took a part of you along with me. It's the toolbox you gave me long ago. Tenacity is in the top tier, beside the level that keeps me centered. But even when I falter, I hammer on. That's how I saved myself.

How sweet it feels to have gained so much from my losses. Yours is the cloud of dust I left in my past. Mine is the brilliantly burning torch I tightly grip. You were the catalyst. I was the wick. You struck the match.

Thanks for the fire.