It makes me cry...

And so the articles are ready. Finally. How I've come to hate writing about Arani Issa. I don't hate the candidates. I am not so sure what I feel for them, but it certainly isn't hate. But today, while I was on a high because I'd finally managed to write two articles decent enough for publishing, I set my PC on Arani Issa. And there it was staring at me in the face again; the battle of the bulge. And it was all about this young man whom I've met about a year ago. Good Lord, the transformation. The man lost half his weight, a 104kg to be exact. And it's made me cry. Out of happiness because it will now change his life. And it's also made me cry because of this constant sadness I feel. I'm ok I guess, I come here and vent the bad feelings off. Sometimes I just remember and remember and since I can remember a whole lot I also remember what was happening in my time. And then I cry some more again for things cherished and lost and for things not cherished and gained. And then the sadness goes straight to my brain, tightening my neck, making me gasp for air and making me feel so terribly unwell. And I look for something to console me. And I find there isn't. Just the looks, the whispers, and the constant cat fights back at my mother's home. The constant putting down in everything. And I try to convince that it's ok because I have my own house and family where there are cats but no cat-fights, where nobody looks at me in disgust and puts me down for a reason which is not entirely my fault. Sometimes it works, most times it doesn't. So I then turn to my cats, because they know and they don't stare or whisper. And I go back again to today's Arani Issa and remember the loving mum who thought the world of her son at a 202kg. Which makes me go back to my mum, a loving mum in her own obsessive way, who could learn a lesson or two when it comes to the unconditional. I can never understand, I suppose, what it feels like to be a mum. I can only get close and know what I feel towards my cats. If one of them had a problem, then I'd help it, nurse it back to life. I'd never say I-told-you-so. And I'd never blame it on having left the mummy home. I do not deserve to be looked at in disdain just because I knew I had to make an exit from my mum's home in order to survive. Survival is not just about finding dinner ready. And I think that now I just want to call her and lash out and show her all the things she's been bad at. But I know it's useless because I do it a lot and it never works. Everything is just because I left home without the blessing to be wed and screwed. I left anyway and I'm not sorry. And there she goes thinking all would be well if only I'd go back. Go back? No, because I do not sign death warrants, least of all my own. And I'm not about to be controlled by another woman anymore, it doesn't matter f she happens to be my mum. And that also makes me cry.