Growing up my mom used to call me her “little karma.” As a kid I never really understood what she meant—she’d say it in a high-pitched playful sort of way. For a while, I thought it made me special, since I was the only one of the three kids who had a nickname like that. A word just for me. Later, I realized it wasn’t affection—it was a sigh of annoyance dressed up in a smile. Her grin was like a mask, but her words always seemed to slip through.
As I got older it just became “karma.” It was harsh and lost all the innocence it once held. Every argument, every disagreement, she never failed to remind me of it. Sometimes she’d even add that she couldn’t wait for me to have kids of my own just so I could experience the torturous hell I put her through. That’s when I realized I was never special—more thought of as a burden that she never asked for.
I don’t think my mom ever hated me…I just think we were too similar to get along. She had me and my two other siblings barely before she was twenty-five. She had no idea who she was and had three mouths to feed. Not to mention that she was married to a man who emotionally berated her every day. And there I was, a stubborn child with an insistent attitude and a need to question everything, pushing against everything she thought she was doing right, leaving her more and more gutted as time passed. Now I look back on it and I don’t think my mom knew who she was or what she wanted out of life. She never got to grow up and discover herself. That makes me feel sad for her.
I sit here at twenty-five, childless and getting my master’s degree, with my only responsibility being to take care of myself and my dog. I have the freedom to figure out who I am and go wherever the wind takes me—an opportunity my mother never got. So, I don’t blame her for struggling to keep me around. She was just like me.
For years, I think I’ve carried that guilt…thinking I stole so much of my mom’s youth—who she could have been if I’d never existed. The idea of it has even carried into my relationships now, always making me feel like a disturbance, like I’m too much. One of my past relationships even told me that being with me was like looking into a mirror of all the worst parts of themselves—a walking karma of every feeling they tried to avoid. So, they walked away just like my mom did.
That’s why I’ve grown so fond of spending time alone. When I’m alone, it’s like I live in an untouchable bubble. I keep to myself and I like it that way…I can control my own time and only inconvenience myself if needed.
And somewhere inside all my time in solitude, I learned that I quite like myself. Truly like myself. I know my flaws, I know my past, but I also know who I am and who I want to be—and no one can take that away from me.
So, maybe I was never anyone’s karma after all…I was just me, trying to figure out how to be myself.