My Mother

Hereditary compulsions roused me from my perceived endless scroll into the inferno of Youtube. My compulsion was triggered by a subtle roar of a car's engine outside. With no reservation, disregarding expected poise at my age and additionally my dignity, my 17-year-old mouth screeched "Mummy!" as I jumped across my bed and towards the window, to get a better view of the car.

Alas, I see my mother's grey SUV neatly parked outside my grandmother's house (by which I reside in). An unusual rush of warm energy dominated my torso and heart area, and I had such a blunt, unconventional amount of 'love' doomfully in me, I subconsciously felt scared of its implied endless capacity.
This is what my mother does to me.

Despite the mishaps, beatings, stranglings; I still love her.

Yes, I still love her, because she is my mother. I seldom contemplate the reason for my blind loyalty to my mother, despite her brutish vices. When I do, I try to salvage the stringy thoughts drooping and hanging from my unorganised brain. Shockingly, I had written down a full sentence in my notebook last week. I had written that: "after a long enough time, you realise that people are reproductions of their generational mindsets, and thus are quite inescapable and one should merely learn to accept these inherited setbacks and train oneself to subdue the Cain inside of him."

I believe this pertains greatly to me and my mother.