Retelling of my life I’m turning into a book)
My first memory is of my mom and grandfather fighting. They always got along but also always fought. I don’t know why. I never knew why. But this time, I was 6 or 7 years old, hiding in my room and crying. When my mom stormed into the room, she grabbed me by my hair and dragged me to our car. I wasn’t allowed to grab my coat. She was pissed. She nearly threw me against the car like I was a rag doll. I landed in the snow and rushed to get in the car. I got in the car and she yelled at me for crying. That was the last time for 3 or 4 years that I was allowed to go to my grandparents’ house.
I shake my head out of the memory as I’m standing behind a register at my job. No one was in the store, but I had to stand like there was. I sighed heavily and turned around, looking at the other cashier who was on shift with me. They were leaving soon since they were opening. It was 4 pm. I still had 5 hours until I could leave. Another sigh. The same 5 Christmas songs had been on loop for weeks, even though it was past the new year.
4 hours, “have a holly jolly-” …
Lunch time, 30 minutes to rest—oh, time’s already up, not even time to eat. Oh well. “Have a holly jolly-” …
3 hours, “have a holly jolly-” …
2 hours, “have a holly jolly-” …
Finally home, I think as I step in the door of my tiny apartment. I can’t complain. I pay 200 dollars for rent, but it’s barely big enough for me, much less my best friend, aka my roommate.
I lay in my bed and reach for my weed pen, but when I take a hit it tastes like burned wires. It was empty, and I couldn’t get a new one for over a week.
A heavy, pained groan. Guess that means living with the pain with no relief, again. I rub my knees, which are always swollen and painful after work. I lay flat on my back and sigh again, then just put on my favorite comfort show.
Comforting, old lines I’ve known for years. I end up falling asleep.
I rarely dream. I should put that out there now. I don’t remember my dreams. I never have. Even after I was almost killed by a dog and had nightmares for years, I didn’t remember any of them. That’s why when I had a nightmare later, it was a shock.
The dream started when I was 12 or 13, when I was first told that I took too long in the shower. Forty-five minutes for a shower was outrageous for every other day. I was told to either take shorter showers or not take them so often. I used to love showers. Loved the water, loved feeling clean, my hair looking nicer.
I tried to take shorter showers, but it took almost 20 minutes just to brush out my hair. And when I told my mom that, she didn’t believe me and told me to brush it out before my shower. I tried. I promise, I tried. It hurt to brush my hair while dry, but I tried. And it only seemed to get more tangled, more messed up, when I brushed it dry.
I got in so much trouble when my mom found me in the bathroom, trying to brush my hair while crying because it felt like I was scalping myself. She screamed at me, hit me with my brush, threatened to shave me bald.
It didn’t help that my mom didn’t know how my hair worked. She had straight, thin, blonde hair. She looked like a Barbie doll. But me? My hair was thick as vines and curly as a sheep’s fur.
This wasn’t the first time I got in trouble for being different than her. It wasn’t my fault that I wasn’t like her, that I wasn’t her perfect child, that I couldn’t be a Barbie doll.
I woke up with a gasp, the dream already fading. I reached for my pen and took a hit, forgetting it was empty.
Sighing, I stand up and look in my mini fridge to see if I have anything to eat. Of course I don’t. Shrugging, I go back to my bed and just lay there, nothing to do but rot in bed. Four days off, no weed, no food. “What a great weekend,” I mumble to myself. My roommate had been at work at this point.
I zone out. I often do when my head is loud and I have nothing to distract from it, and I think about some of my childhood. I barely remember any of my childhood. It’s blurry, murky, and feels like I’m watching from the third person. Come to think of it, I think as I sit up, everything feels third person.
“Huh,” I say out loud, to no one but myself. I often talk to myself. It’s easier to think that way, hearing my own voice out loud. Sometimes I have too many thoughts. It almost feels like multiple people thinking for me.
andulkaphoto
turnnoffyourmind
germansingergirl
amandla
areudirty
titsay
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
