My Mother
My mother. She gave me life. I still don't know if that was a wise decision on her part. Sometimes I think it would be easier if I didn't exist. Simpler. But it's too late to change that now.
My mother didn't have many friends. She was pretty much a loner. She only spent time with her boyfriends and any friends she picked up from work. If she had a job. You'd think she'd spend her time with me. I was always here. I was always around. She never did. I never knew why. I convinced myself she liked to be alone. But when she brought someone home it crushed me. She would sit with them. She would eat with them. She would talk with them. She would laugh with them. And where was I? Holed up in my room. You can only be told to go away so many times before you give up. I tried to avoid her. Stay in my room as often as I could. I guess my room was kind of a safe haven. But I knew it wasn't. That whole apartment was tainted.
My mother had several jobs when I was growing up. All menial. But that's no excuse. People can work in menial jobs all their life with shitty pay. It only takes some self-management to turn your lack of pay into a small fortune. My mother never got the concept of saving though. She always spent it as soon as she got it. And usually on frivolous things that we didn't need. Compared to things we could use like food. Or utilities. She could never keep one job longer than a year. Maybe if she actually tried, she'd move on up the proverbial ladder. She never did. She was always fired for stupid reasons. Like not listening. Talking back. She should know better than that. There were many times when she just quit because she'd had enough. She never waited until she had another job lined up. She just quit and spent the next six months trying to find a new one. We had no food. They even turned off the power, gas and water because we were late. We were lucky we never lost the apartment.
Sometimes my mother's boyfriends paid the rent and utilities. I didn't like it when that happened. Once they paid for something they felt entitled. Like they had a say in things. That they now lived here. With us. With me. My mother never knew they beat me. She saw the bruises. The cuts. The broken bones. I stupidly told her I got into fights. But none of that explained the blood on the carpet. The broken glass. Broken furniture. My mother's own bruises. I always suspected deep down that she knew. But I couldn't be sure. She must've seen the flash of sheer terror that passed through my eyes every time she brought home a new boyfriend. Nothing made sense on that front. I never brought it up though. What was she going to do? How could she help me? I was afraid. I was afraid if I brought it up that she'd choose them over me.
My mother was drunk half the time. Sometimes just tipsy. Sometimes full blown drunk. I don't know which one I preferred out of the two. If she was tipsy. She was mean. She spoke her mind. She taunted me with her words. But when she was full blown drunk. I had to hold her hair when she threw up. I had to look after her. I had to put her to bed. And then she'd pass out. It always left me feeling alone. The apartment turned eerily silent. I sat and watched her sleep sometimes. It was the only time she wouldn't tell me to go away. There was one thing I forgot to mention though. There was an in-between. Some place in the middle. I call it her happy drunk stage. A time where she's neither here nor there. That time was always the worst. She was caring. She told me that she loved me. She apologized. She acted like a real mother. That's why it was the worst. She'd wake up. She wouldn't remember. And I was left to pick up the pieces. Left to go back. It was hard to go back after I had a taste of how good it could never be.
Drugs were the worst out of everything. I hate drugs so much. I hate them with a passion. My mother did drugs. Hardcore drugs. That didn't bother me much. I was already used to a drunk mother. And a stoned mother wasn't that different. What got me the most. What hurt me the most. Was that her boyfriends showed her this lifestyle. Her boyfriends. They had no connection to me. I should be blaming them solely, but I can't. I hold my mother responsible for this. Even though she probably doesn't even know about it. I was young. I can't remember how young. One of them offered me a cigarette. Told me it'd calm me down. Convinced me it was something everyone did. I tried it. I had no reason not to. I got addicted. I found out later that drugs were bad. But it was too late. I was already hooked on other drugs like marijuana, cocaine, and such. The same boyfriend gave them to me. When I found out they were bad for me I shook the habit. It was hard. The hardest thing I've ever had to do. I did it by convincing myself that I was better than them. That I didn't want to willingly act like my mother. I shook all the hard drugs. I still smoke cigarettes at times. But I try and limit it to when I really need them. It calms me. It soothes me. It brings me back down. Back down to rational thoughts. I need it. I rely on them. I wish I didn't. I've tried not to. But it's a constant battle I can't seem to win.
My mother has a brother. Never told me about him though. Sometimes I'd catch her on the phone talking to him. She seemed happy. Carefree. Her smile was so big. I wished she'd smile at me like that. I could tell she loved him. She told him about me. All good things. She painted a perfect picture of our life to him. She made it seem as though it was good. When truthfully it was far from it. Sometimes she'd talk about him to me. She was always drunk though. Hardly coherent. I found out he was present at my birth. That he held me in his arms. That he was happy. But I also heard how he kicked my mother out of his house because she got pregnant. I knew nothing about him. He never called. He never sent any cards. Nothing. It was like he didn't even exist. Like he only existed for her.
All this surprised me because as soon as I got out of juvie my mother informed me I was going to live with him. I was thankful. I was fearful. But I knew I needed a change. My mother and I weren't good for each other. The time apart should do us good. Truthfully, I just needed to get out. And I'd take living with some uncle I didn't know over spending my nights on the streets any day. It turned out to be a good move on my mother's part. So I guess in the end, she did do something good for me.