My mother.
I’ve told people I hate her, and that’s not true.
I’ve told people that she’s crazy. This is true.
My grandmother is crazy too. When my mother was a child, my grandma treated her horribly. She locked her in closets, didn’t feed her, and kicked her out of the house several times from a young age. My mother has been in several foster homes as a child. She’s had a drug and alcohol problem since she was about 14. She first got pregnant when she was 15 with my father. They got all the way until the end of the pregnancy and my mother was in labor. She was in labor for 24 hours before the doctors realized something was wrong. It turns out that my mother’s pelvic bones are inverted, and every time she pushed, she pushed the life out of her baby. Their child died. My mother had the rest of her children as C-sections. My mother got pregnant with me was she was about 17, and had me when she was 18.
My parents were separated when I was one, and divorced a short time later. For years I barely saw my mother. She would promise me that she would come pick me up and I would spend the weekend with her. I would wait by the window for her. She would never show up. My father made excuses for her. She didn’t show up at any of the custody hearing either, so my father was awarded sole custody by default.
Throughout the years as a child, I built my mother up to something that later in life, I realized she was not. Things weren’t so good at my father’s house for me, and whenever I was with my mother it felt like a haven, a safe place. I didn’t realize it was just the same. I’m not sure on who’s watch it was that I was molested, my mother’s or my father’s.
When my mother met her current husband, she changed. I didn’t know it at the time, of course. She became clean and sober for years. When I went to live with her in the 10th grade, the mother I thought she was became a ghost. She started doing cocaine again.
For a very long time, I held onto the hope that she would change. Someday, she would be better. She’s lived a life of denial. She wraps drugs and alcohol around her problems and wraps denial around drugs and alcohol. She’s never dealt with her childhood.
In her suffering, she’s made her family suffer immensely. She used to be so beautiful. In a room full of women she was usually the prettiest. Now that she doesn’t do cocaine anymore but drinks, her body is fat and her face is the bloated splotchiness of an alcoholic. She’s given up on life.
I went over to her house yesterday after work to spend time with my youngest sister and meet their new kitten. Everything was fine.
Tonight my sister had a friend coming over to spend the night. Before her friend got there, I was told that her friend had been raped a month ago. Apparently she had been babysitting and the husband had come home and raped her. She got to the house and everything was fine.
A couple hours later, my mother came up to me and said “we need to talk.” I could smell the alcohol on her breath. I didn’t look at her. “What is it mom?” She told me that I needed to go talk to my sister’s friend about being raped. She thought that I could help this girl because I had been molested. I told her no, I would not do that. It’s very inappropriate to start that kind of conversation with someone you met 2 hours ago. That kind of experience is a very deep, personal thing, and you do not go up to a stranger and start talking about it. If she had told me about the rape herself, that’s a different story and I would have told her my story and helped her any way I could.
My mother kept going on about it. Then she started telling me that I was very smart and that I was destined to help people. I claimed I was tired and went to bed. She started yelling at my step dad about something and then she came into my room and wanted me to drive her somewhere. I asked her where, and she said into town (they live in the country). I asked her what she needed. I knew she wanted to go to the liquor store, but I wanted to hear her say it. She finally admitted what she wanted, and I told her no, I would not enable her. She literally begged me. “Please. Please, Crystal, please.” I felt horrible. I did not want to be in that conversation. I did not want to be there, in that room.
She finally left. I don’t know if she drove drunk, or if my step father ended up driving her. I packed up my things and told my sister that I was leaving. She said, “Fine, just leave like R.” (R is our other sister) “I’m sorry, I just can’t sit here while she begs me to drive her to the liquor store. I just can’t.” I hugged her tight and almost started crying.
I left.
I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I JUST FUCKING HATE IT.
I just want to scream at the world it’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair IT’S JUST NOT FUCKING FAIR. It’s unfair that my sister has to live like that. It’s unfair that this happens. Sometimes I wonder why. Why me? Why us? Normal doesn’t exist, but sometimes I want it. I crave it so badly it makes my heart ache.
The highway and world was cloaked in darkness covered by stars and headlights. I drove in a trance. I did not cry a single tear.
My mother has caused me so much pain in my life. Mostly they’re just scars now. But they are scars that still rip open and bleed sometimes.
Sometimes I wonder how my mother feels when she treats us the way she does. Does she say cruel and hurtful things then lock herself in a room and cry? Does she feel bad?
Maybe tonight she was asking me for help. Maybe. But how do you begin to help someone when they are shrouded in denial? How could I help her when I can barely help myself?
I love my mother. But she needs to stop this.
I feel guilty for leaving.
