When I was 15, my mother convinced my teacher to forcibly draft me on to the basketball team. This was in a small town, and I was a tall teen; they thought I would be naturally talented and learn to enjoy it. I did not.
On the drive home from our first game (a town several hours away) I broke down in front of my mother and cried. I explained that I hated every aspect my life and everything I was doing. I told her I felt scared that I was losing touch and would hurt myself. I was scared of my stepfather. I was scared of the future. More than anything, I was scared of waking up in the morning. I asked to see a therapist. She laughed in my face, then told me to stop trying to get attention.
I've since worked in a lot of customer service jobs, and I've gotten yelled at and berated aplenty. Those words are the only ones to ever hurt.
That was a rough time. In one of the few moments of my life when I needed someone to sincerely care about me, I felt completely abandoned. It took a part of me away that I'm only really finding again now, so many years later.
In a weird way, she saved my life that night. I realized that I was not around people who had my best interests at heart, but a small part of me wanted to know what it felt like. I didn't want to leave until I could love someone who loved me.
I know you'll never read this mom, but thank you. If you hadn't hurt me like you did, I wouldn't have been able to put down that knife.