If You Wanna Bang Heads With Me

I love my mother, don't get me wrong. I think she's the strongest, most admirable woman in the world. But I can't stand the way she thinks of herself, of me, and the world around her. I was about ten when she started drinking, and twelve when she started doing it around my brothers and I. She would go on random tirades, get us out of bed to tell us how we were ruining her life. Me being the oldest, I thought the only way to keep her in check was to enable her, so I did. I would stay up late with her, listening to her crazy stories, and eventually getting sucked into them. One night, her and I were sitting in the kitchen of our old apartment. The cold, fluorescent light above us gave her face a sickly pale tint, and heightened the shadows beneath her cheeks and eyes. This ghostly parody of my sweet, warm mother told me about a blue cadillac that would drive by our house very slowly every Sunday at two in the afternoon, telling me they were spies trying to kill her. Ethereal ones, that didn't exist with us on this plane of life. I told her she was scaring me, and I wanted to go upstairs to bed. She rasped "It's worse up there." I looked into her eyes, her wide-open, bloodshot blue eyes, and right then I knew she meant it. I knew that my mother was gone, and in her place, this demon resided in her desiccated husk.
Another time, I was listening to her talk about her mother, and her childhood. She took my finger in her hand and put it to a tiny bump on the top of her head, right next to the part in her tumbling curls, and told me that's what happens when you stab a baby with an awl. It doesn't puncture.
The last time she drank, it was a Friday. I came home from school and as soon as I walked in the door, she dragged me up the stairs into my room, where she declared I would never leave again. Naturally, I ran away to my friend's house down the street. After a weekend of getting high and hanging out, I heard the cops were looking for me, per an Amber Alert. Knowing those are reserved for actual cases of child endangerment, I returned home. As soon as I came in the door, she proceeded to beat me with various objects around the house, ironically my giant Bud bottle piggy bank. Even when I escaped the apartment, the neighbors didn't call the cops. After my screaming, no one came. My father just sat there and watched. Finally, my brothers called my dad's mother, who called her sister, who called the cops. They took my mom away, and I didn't see her for a two years. My dad's mother took us all in, and the apartment was forfeit due to rent negligence. I would get e-mails from my mom's phone, but I didn't think of her at all.
Eventually, after I got in trouble with the law, my boyfriend at the time was becoming very distant, since my dad wouldn't sell me any drugs and I had no use to him. To keep him, I moved back in with my mom, in her little efficiancy apartment. I continued on my wayward path, eventually racking up seven arrests and a felony just under the 18 years old mark. Finally, per the court order, I decided to quit drugs myself, and get to know my mom a little better now that we were both on the path to recovery.
We moved into a bigger apartment on the south side of town, and I began dating a close friend of mine from high school, who I'd spent the previous summer getting in trouble with. Although my house arrest dictated that I was not allowed to have any contact with anyone, he would come over and spend some time with me after he got off of his night job. When I finally could leave my house and be with him, we'd hang out at his house, where I would watch him and all of his friends get high and drink, while I died a little inside with each hit, each shot.
After six months of torture, I was finally let off of probation. I relapsed instantly, and my boyfriend got a better, much higher-paying job. We began to grow increasingly distant, and I began hanging out with my 30 year old co-worker, who I had a tiny crush on that grew to consume me, and I couldn't live that way anymore. Once again, I found myself running back into my mom's arms for answers and direction.
Shortly thereafter, Neil and I began dating, and his nephew moved out. With no one else to turn to, I stepped in for financial relief. It's been almost a year since then. I find myself none the wiser, and even more unstable.
A few minutes ago, my little sister was watching the Suite Life of Dumb and Dumber or whatever it is kids watch these days, and my mother was sharpening a pencil. She told me that her parents probably never noticed the nice things she used to do for them when she was younger. She said every couple of weeks, she would take the pen and pencil container and sharpen all the pencils, throw out all the bum pens. As she spoke, my sister was trying to get my attention to show me a drawing of hers, and my mother just talked right over her.
I realized this happens all the time, and that although you can take away the alcohol, that doesn't take away the alcoholic mind. She tells me these things, and I lay awake at night thinking about them, and about all of the other horrible things that have happened to me in my life. I try to stand tall above the water, but I find myself drowning when she acts like that. It makes me think that she doesn't notice all the nice things my sister does for her, that the cycle is doomed to repeat itself, just as it is with alcoholism and abuse.
I tell her to stop telling me this stuff, that I need my sleep because although I don't want it, I have my own life, my own bills and problems, and I can't spend all my time worrying about her, and thinking about all the horrible things that have happened to her and my sister.
I tell myself I hate my family and the world, but really, I hate my mother, and her inability to deal with her problems head-on, like an adult, like a real recovering addict. No matter how hard I try, she will always be an alcoholic, and my brothers and father may as well be lightyears away, even though I can reach them in a matter of minutes.
I tell you now that although we've had our differences and overcome many obstacles, I still hate my mother. I hate her for what she's done to my sweet little sister who calls white men "honkies" and calls my father a "**** head" even though she's never met him. Who stands in the back of the classroom because she believes no one will listen to her, that she must absorb everything as her own thoughts.
I tell everyone I love the world, my family and my job, but after all this time, I'm still nothing but a squaw dog. Just a buffer between the real and the unreal. So funnel all of your hate through me. All of your love and anger. I'll take everything you have, and I will give it back a thousandfold, better and more beautiful than I received it. Maybe in this way, I will give you all a better life than my mother, my sister and my family. Maybe this way, I will give you... love.
IAmXTineNow IAmXTineNow
18-21, F
Dec 16, 2012