Shortness of Breath

I feel like everywhere I look, women are being abused. Not in the obvious ways, no one's getting beaten in the street where I can see, but in conversation, on television, the media in general, really. It's fucking EVERYWHERE. A woman gets raped and everyone digs in their nails when she reports it. They try to tell her that she's lying, or that the rapist didn't mean anything by it. Doubt is instantly cast whether the full story is known or not. Shame is thrown at her in all directions, if she's not fortunate enough to have a supportive circle of friends.
What sickens me the most is that a good portion of the time, other women are perpetrating this bullshit for whatever reason. Maybe they too were raped and seeing someone actually do something about it makes their stomach twinge with jealousy. Maybe seeing someone express their pain reminds them too much that they have their own that they try day by day to hide. Maybe they're just passing on the abuse that they themselves suffered. When I really think about it, these reasons are all one and the same, one leads directly to the other. People suffer their whole lives and they can do nothing but spread it around.
I want to be angry with these people for being weak. I am, really, but sometimes my thoughts slow down and I put myself in their situation. I imagine, what would have happened to me if I weren't blessed with the support system of friends I have? Would healing even be worth it, if it meant being completely alone in a suffocating sea of idiocy and pain? The world would have crushed me far more easily if my friends hadn't have been there to help me hold it up.
I look at my mother, who was horribly abusive to me for most of my life, someone I had to realize is no longer capable of love: Her parents hit her and generally treated her like shit. She was a magnet for abuse, at least in the way she tells it. Her older brother molested her repeatedly and raped their step-sister. Having the information I do now, I wouldn't be surprised if one of her parents had done this to her also. I've yet to meet someone who's anger even comes close to matching hers. From her description of events and what I remember, she has never had a true, loving, supportive friend. No one ever told my mother that she didn't deserve the treatment she received, or tried to help her in any kind of constructive way. No one ever really loved her. Having her as a mother was nonstop terrifying; I remember tiptoeing around when I knew she was home, or pretending to be asleep, just so I could avoid the horror of her anger, at least for one night. No matter what I did, it was never good enough. I always, always managed to make her angry with me, and then the yelling and screaming and crying would never stop. I would beg her to stop, to just leave me alone or let me go to sleep or just have some RELIEF from hearing about how I was the most horrible person in the world. I would break down and cry and she would yell more because she believed I was doing it to make her feel bad. When I would start to audibly sob, she would hold me, but only for a few moments. Not that I minded; being hugged by my mother when she was angry with me felt like being molested with her energy. Being screamed into a corner by her felt like being raped. Like any shitty childhood, there were of course happy moments, but they would always end badly. It was like she would save up her anger throughout the day so that it was even more volatile and overwhelming. To this day, when I'm having a good time with my friends, I start to panic because I feel that inevitably, I'll do something or say something to ruin it all and get screamed at.
Some of the things she said a lot was "Why don't you go live with your dad if you hate me so much?" "Why don't you just run away?" or some variation thereof. When I was in preschool, she said this to me and I was heartbroken. My mom had basically said that she didn't want me around. With tears in my eyes, I got a paper bag and went into my room. She walked in as I was putting my toys in it. When she asked me what I was doing, I repeated what she had said to me, and told her that I would go live with my dad if she didn't want me around. She laughed then. Apparently, it was fucking adorable. She admitted that she had said it to get a rise out of me, but I was too young to understand what that meant. I didn't get that she didn't really mean what she had said. I don't think that's ever really gotten through my head.
Again in high school. It was my birthday, or her birthday, I don't remember. I don't remember what I had done. "If you hate me so much, why don't you just fucking run away?" she demanded. She kept saying it until I yelled "FINE." and stood to make my way to the front door. As I tried to pass her, I saw her eyes go dead and lower to my chest. I had dealt with her enough to know what that look meant, and crossed my arms protectively on my chest. She shoved me back. If I hadn't have blocked, she would have shoved me back by my breasts. I was fifteen. It felt horrible and disgusting. My mom was an ace at making feel that way.
I felt sorry for my mom for a very long time, and guilty that I was so hurt and angry at her. It wasn't until the last year and a half that I realized that my mom had never loved me, never showed me an ounce of kindness, unless she got something out of it. My mom doesn't love me; she can't, and she never really has. When I see women react to others who have reported rape as I stated above, I feel a twinge of fear that they will breed, and having not dealt with their issues, will pour the abuse onto their children that was poured onto them. It's a cycle that seems like it will never end.
But it will, I know it will, because there are people like me, like my friends, that are working through the horrible things that happened to them, and will someday raise children with real, heartfelt love instead of anger and betrayal.
I really hope there are others out them doing the same. Everywhere I look, women are being abused, and it tears me up inside.