Two Hundred and Four Mondays

In four years I managed to go on an infinite number of excursions which most would only dream of accomplishing in a lifetime. And I don't even remember most of them.
But there is one thing I do remember: Mondays. Two hundred and four of them, to be exact.
Could you handle moving two hundred and four times? Do you even understand what that means?
That means, you pack two hundred and four times. Say goodbye to the places and new friends you make, two hundred and four times. That you take a car, or a bus, dragging all of your luggage to the airport, two hundred and four times. That you go through that dreaded security and eat that mediocre airport food court cuisine, two hundred and four times. It means you let your ears pop, breathe recycled air, and eat free peanuts more times than you ever want to, two hundred and four times, to be exact. It means you end up in a new city, with new people, and a new average hotel which you will call "home" for only one week, before moving again...two hundred and four times.
It's no wonder I have no memories of familiar things, like where I learned to ride a bike, or what park I'd always play in; I never went to daycare, or had a favorite babysitter. Nothing in my life was constant, almost nothing was ever stable. It's no wonder I'm cold-hearted and bitter about change, I'm deathly afraid of intimacy, and even more afraid of being utterly alone. Of course I'm afraid to trust people, because no one was there for me to trust, when it mattered most.
The remains of my parents sacrifice will forever be an imprint on my identity.
And yet, through all of this instability and uncertainty, it was one of my parents, my mother, who was always there. It was my mother who played games with me and entertained me, my mother who made me laugh and would keep me happy, my mother who I trusted and loved.
My mother was my hero, my lifeline, my friend.
And it brings a lump to my throat, the sting to the back of my eyes, that pained feeling in my chest when I think of this, because I wish so badly that it could have remained that way. I find the pieces of this past in the photos my mother cherishes most; the ones which she keeps in the kitchen of the two of us. In every picture we're smiling ear to ear, a genuine, jubilant smile. Not one of the pictures am I older than two, judging by the blondness of my hair, and the length of my mother's. Both things which no longer exist. It makes the pictures appear to be from another life, far from the one I have now come accustom to.
A life where Mondays mean nothing more than the start of a new week, and I haven't moved for almost ten years. A life where I can have favorite places and memories, and even friends that don't disappear. But my mother isn't one of them."I can't be your friend, I'm your mother. I'm the boss," she tells me.
This life is different than my old one. We're different. And I don't just mean our hairstyles.
I'm not two anymore, and I don't always agree with my mother blindly. I am an independent girl with my own dreams and desires. I am no longer alone; I don't need the same attention and affection as I did when I was isolated. Now I am being unintentionally suffocated.
My mother has changed as well. Her smile is broken and her will to better herself tainted by an extreme lack of self-confidence. Her affection and attention no longer help me, but protect herself, like a shield, hiding her inner inability to let me in. My two year old self connected to a part of her which no longer exists, which is so damaged by the loss of her mother that it can never be repaired. I will never understand her without that missing piece, and we can never again be friends.
Instead, I will always be jealous of a younger version of myself, of another life that I don't exist in. A life where Monday is more than one beginning, and my relationship with my mother is something I'm proud of, not something I live with.

Tomorrow is Monday. I am traveling with my mother. She wants to "revisit her past" or something of that mid-life crisis nature. As I sit here typing these words, I can't help but wonder if this could be a chance for both of us to do just that. Even if the pasts were trying to reach are different. All I can do for now is hope, as the two hundred and fifth Monday approaches.