Rain, rain, please never go away. Rain, rain, I need you to stay. 

Rain, rain, you can come every day. 

Rain rain…
I absolutely LOVE the rain. It’s starting to be rainy wether season in Orlando. It rains at least once a day. Well, it did last year. This year, not as much, but every time it does, I notice. I can tell before it’s about to rain. It’s like there is a magic in the air. The scent is heavy. The pressure is on. The clouds start to move mysteriously. 
I’ve had the best and the worst days in the rain. 
I had my first kiss on a rainy day. 

My sister died on a rainy day. 

I went to my first party on a rainy day. 

My mother was beaten on a rainy day. 

I fell in love on a rainy day. 

I was told I have HIV on a rainy day. 

I started my road to recovery on a rainy day. 

I relapsed on a rainy day. 
So many stories, what feels like so little time. I could go over every one of those instances and make this post read on forever. I wouldn’t do that though. 
However, I would like to focus on one topic in particular. 
My mother. 
Every time it rains, I can’t help but think about her. Her smile, her laugh, her hair, the way she combs my hair when I’m sick, the way she loves unconditionally, the way she has accepted her flaws. The list is endless. 
My mother and I have a very interesting relationship. She is more friend then mother. If you hear us speaking to each other you would gasp. 
All she knew was how to be a friend. All she knew was she didn’t want to repeat what her mother did to her. All she knew was to be the victim. And for a while she truly was… 
I feel bad for her. She is the strongest women I’ve ever met, and yet she is the weakest. She has a fragile heart, but it’s surrounded by a thick piece of armor. She didn’t create it out of sheer luck. She made it out of neccessity. That’s her story to tell though. Where I come into play is the short clips of her life I saw. 
The beatings…

The club…

The friends turned enemies…

The lovers turned fathers…

The randoms turned boyfriends…

The unsteadiness of the life she created for herself, for us, for me. 
I grew up in a household with 3 other boys. She tells me all the time “we had good times, you just refuse to acknowledge them.” It’s not as simple as not acknowledging them. I can’t remember them. I can’t seem to sift through the bad times long enough to get to them. 
Things got “better” after you had the guts to tell him no. Things got “better” after you put your foot down and couldn’t handle it. Things got “better” after you let BOTH of them go. Things were “better” except he was mentally destroying you. Life TRULY got better once I aged out. 
It was systematically set up that way. We couldn’t have a relationship before now. I wouldn’t let you live it down. I wouldn’t let you forget. I wouldn’t let myself forgive. I had to make you out to be this horrible person. I had to do it, because “they” seemed to make things better. 
As an adult we’ve had conversations. We’ve had those long, tearful talks. We continue down a good path. I no longer blame you. I no longer make you out to be the martyer. I no longer hold you accountable. 
I’m sorry mother.
I’m sorry for:
The things you went thru 

The things I held onto

The things you hold onto

The things I held you accountable for 

The things you had no control over
I forgive you, I forgive myself, and I let it go. I love you to infinity and beyond. 

PLUR Regards,

Tyler Hurt


Edited by: Heather LaBarge, Exalted Peacock


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