I hate my mother. I hate her and it’s hurts. She’s never loved me. Ever.

When I was 17 I was struggling with some serious ptsd. It manifested as OCD. I had a long standing OCD fixations was a suicidal ideation where i shot myself in the head.

She knew about it. She took me to a therapist. They recommended she remove the gun she owned from our house. She agreed, and said that her sister was now storing it for her.

Some time later I was dressing and needed socks. I went to her bedroom to find some socks. In her sock drawer was a handgun.

My entire body began shaking. I looked at it for a what felt like a very long time, frozen in terror, teetering on the edge.

I closed the drawer, grabbed my s*** and went to a friend’s house. I spent months after that in a high anxiety state, struggling with the vicious cycle of anxiety and OCD.

I could’ve died that day because she didn’t value me. I’m her child. It was too much trouble to ensure my safety.

She’s never been an addict. She had a wonderful childhood. Why didn’t she ever have anything for me?