i blame you for all my sufferings ever in life

On the early morning of October 1, 1997, Luke Woodham smothered his mother with a pillow, then beat her with a baseball bat and stabbed her to death. The 16-year-old then drove his mother’s car to his high school in Pearl, Mississippi and opened fire, murdering two female students, one being his former girlfriend and wounding seven others. Woodham is currently serving life for the three murders and an additional 20 years for each of the people who were injured. 

Just moments before the shooting, he handed writings containing his motive and a will to a friend. It said:

“I killed because people like me are mistreated every day. I did this to show society push us and we will push back. Murder is not weak and slow-witted, murder is gutsy and daring. I suffered all my life. No one ever truly loved me. No one ever truly cared about me. All throughout my life, I was ridiculed, always beaten, always hated. Can you, society, truly blame me for what I do? Yes, you will. The ratings wouldn’t be high enough if you didn’t, and it would not make good gossip for all the old ladies. It was not a cry for attention, it was not a cry for help. It was a scream in sheer agony saying that if I can’t pry your eyes open, if I can’t do it through pacifism, if I can’t show you through displaying of intelligence, then I will do it with a bullet.”

Anger, Pt 2

I never felt angry at you. How could I? You were depressed. You were dealing with the same shit I was, with no help from anyone. You were blamed for everything, even things that were never your fault. They all hated you so much that we all suffered for it. And of all the people in my life, you were the kindest. You cared, you thought, you struggled so much. You tried so hard. But some things just don’t add up, even today.

It wasn’t your fault. You alone can’t be blamed for what happened back then. But is it okay that I’m still a little mad for what you allowed to happen? Is it okay that I’m still a little mad that all the money just disappeared? All of my money? Was it ever mine? Am I allowed to be mad that I wore the same clothes from 5th grade to college while she had a new shirt every day? Am I allowed to be mad that I’m the only one who ever cleaned the house? That I had to sort through your bills for you because you couldn’t deal with it when I was 14? That you’d rather we all starve than get food stamps because it’s too embarrassing for you? That we kept a vicious dog that only ever bit me around because everyone loved the stupid dog more than they loved me? The vet told us he bit me because he saw I was the lowest on the pecking order. That didn’t change.

You’re always mad too. I’m too annoying, I’m “feeling sorry for myself,” I nag you. I didn’t want to have to take care of you all my life. You were supposed to take care of me. You can’t get mad at me for worrying about you when you refuse, and always have refused, to take care of yourself. 

This is the feeling I struggle with the most. I feel responsible for you, I feel protective of you, so I can’t bring myself to feel angry at you. But every time I think about how messed up everything was, it hurts. I still don’t know how to feel angry. But I feel it every time the house gets a little messy and I’m reminded of you. I wish you would get some help sometime too. It’s not fair that I don’t want to be too close to you because I’m afraid you’ll use me. I trusted you. Maybe I shouldn’t?

Happy Mother’s Day.