((screaming into the void // a lesson in forgotten childhood and nostalgia))
Last Wednesday my mom got sent to rehab after a bag of speed convinced her that bugs were burrowed under her skin again - her brain and body both somehow disintegrating even more than they already have been the last few years.
Since she got dropped off, it’s forced me into working a full time job, maintaining my house, and now also maintaining my dad’s house too while she’s away. They’re keeping her for two months under an assisted living program. As much as I want to believe it’s a step in the right direction, I’m not 15 anymore. It’s hard to not see this for what it actually is: a waste of money. A last ditch effort to save a woman who’s been desperately knocking on death’s door for over 30 years now. Watching her waste away has been one of the most painful and life-altering things I think I’ll ever go through. My feelings for her mostly lie dormant as an adult, but some days they still manage to surface and pour out in ways that I can’t really put into words.
After working a 10 hour shift today, grocery shopping for my dad and then taking their dog for a walk while he’s at work, I came back inside my childhood home and rummaged around the garage. I couldn’t really tell you why. There was nothing specific I was looking for, but when I found a file cabinet that held three large folders tilted: “NA Resources”, “CPS Court Docs”, and “Bankruptcy” wedged between some of my old drawings, I almost laughed. It was oddly fitting. Trauma mixed with glitter. The story of a broken home, only all of the hauntingly painful memories were illustrated by a fifth grader who watched too much anime.
I read through the court documents, realizing that out of all of the insane amount of dates I remember, these were ones that I’d somehow managed to block out entirely. “January 6, 2006: The state of Indiana has determined the natural mother is not a suitable guardian for the child and will be placing the child as ward of the state until the next hearing. CPS was initially brought into the home after the child’s mother had overdosed on cocaine in April 2005 and the child had missed 24 days of school. The last two court-ordered drug tests conducted have come back positive for opiates to which the mother denied any involvement in.”
I remember going through it. I remember being asked horrible and insanely insensitive questions as an 11 year old girl, like if my dad had ever touched me inappropriately and if I felt safe in my house and if my mom had ever been violent with me. I remember the day she OD’d and the way my dad had to explain to me what cocaine was and how her ribs had been broken when the paramedics did CPR on her while I sobbed into his chest. I remember the CPS worker we had and how wildly nervous I would get every time she knocked on the door. I remember being told by my parents that I couldn’t tell anyone what was going on, for any reason, ever. I remember not trusting anyone and barely talking, always afraid that I’d slip up and say something I wasn’t supposed to. I remember being told that I had to go to school every day no matter what and keep good grades and be quiet and be well behaved and smile and act normal and that if I failed to do any of these things, I’d be placed in foster care. I’d no longer belong to my parents and I’d never be able to see them again. The weight of my mom’s mistakes were placed so heavily on my shoulders that I still feel them 19 years later. That immense pressure of “if you don’t do x, y, and z absolutely perfectly, you’ll ruin everything, it will all be your fault.” A sense of dread that never really goes away no matter how much time passes.
I found letters I’d written to her, all addressed with the same heart-breaking request, “please only read if you’re sober”. It’s very jarring to see those words written in such small, shaky handwriting and to know that they belonged to a hurt middle-schooler who was already terribly confused and lost in life. Every letter, the same - all expressing feelings of betrayal and hurt and arguably worst of all - ending in the same sentiment of, “I love you so much, mom. I know you can get better. I’ll help you in any way I can.” No matter how hard she pushed me away, I never stopped running back to her. I never stopped trying. I never stopped loving her.
It’s very weird looking back at all of this through the lens of a thirty-year-old woman. I’ll never have kids, but I couldn’t imagine subjecting anyone to the things she subjected me to. To leave me alone for days on end when I was in elementary school because I was too much of a headache to deal with. The summers I got left with her friends and she’d only stop by to visit once a month because she couldn’t stand to be around me for too long. The night she almost hit me with her car when I was in high-school because I stood behind it with my arms outstretched, sobbing and begging her not to go. I couldn’t imagine doing that to anyone. Not a child. Not another human being. No one.
I think teenage-me coped by romanticizing her addiction. By turning her bad habits into some broody, artsy, deep, meaningful thing that other people just wouldn’t understand because it hurt a lot less to look at her this way. To see her as a beautiful, tortured poet rather than what she actually was: a neglectful and absent mother. It wasn’t that she didn’t love me, it was that she didn’t know how. I’d tell myself that over and over. Pretty words to cover up a harsh reality. Trauma and glitter. The story of a broken home now being illustrated by a 16-year-old who had a sick, unrelenting, void in her chest, who would fuck anyone if it meant the possibility of being held for five minutes afterwards.
Those past, broken versions of me still exist, somewhere deep down and I try my best to keep them safe. To let them know that I became the adult they needed growing up despite everything we went through. I became my own safe haven and even though there are still some really overwhelming moments in life - like now, the one thing I can promise is that I won’t ever stop trying. I’ll keep going, even on the days I really don’t want to, because unlike the woman who brought me into this world: I will always love myself enough to try.
