Fall, Metaphor, Fall

fall-leaves-falling-banner.jpg

I keep complaining that I’m too old for college. I keep seeing everyone else I know on Facebook with their new careers and various professions, and I think to myself, ‘god, why am I taking so long to get my life started?’ And then, just a minute ago I realized that college is really damned good for me. I don’t know how to be a friend to people, I don’t know how to have fun responsibly, I don’t know how to be an adult. I don’t know how to get my shit together. I picked a great fucking time in my life to really just get it all out. I think my mother failed because she had a kid so young. I mean I can’t imagine having an eight year old by my side right now and I know that I’m like that old kid in college but whatever. I’m learning so much about myself right now and I honestly can’t imagine having to do it differently.

I got that dating app, Bumble. I don’t know why exactly I decided to use it. Most of those things are usually catered towards booty calls and fuck buddies like Tinder but I think because it’s so fledgling, there are actually a couple people on there worth texting. It may sound naive, but honestly I can’t imagine being apart of some crazy circle jerk with frat guys and I swear, I’m no homie hopper.

There are definitely the creepers on there but for the most part, the guys seem pretty tame. I am constantly reminded that I am behind. Seeing as the format is such that the female starts the conversation, I have no idea what to say to someone who’s already in the midst of their career. Usually, it’s just random shit I think of that theoretically I would say to someone in a bar or in public. I try to be as authentic as I can. Sometimes, it works and sometimes it doesn’t. In a weird way, it’s totally liberating.

ShowImage.jpeg

What it has made me realize though is that I have a lot to learn. There is someone real. There is someone out there who totally fits with me. I may not find him on some online dating app, but he’s out there and I’ve discovered I’m on a quest for something real.

Sex sucks sometimes. Relationships suck sometimes. Everything, on some level, really sucks sometimes. But I think what determines whether it’s worth fighting for is the good stuff too. How high can I get when I’m happy? How much does it fill me up? How do I attempt this task without getting too invested too soon?

I have an attachment problem. I know this. My life coach and I talk about this. It stems from my unconscious abandonment anxiety. It lives, it breaths. I can feel it whenever I walk through campus. It perches on my shoulder and tells me everyone is leaving me. It lives in my mind as I try to sleep.

I see the ghosts of all the faces I miss and all the people I’ve lost and I constantly grieve for people that mean nothing. In the end, I know that I will find peace and so I live my waking moments grasping at straws trying to piece together a puzzle I seem to never fully understand. And that’s okay. Because I think I still have a crap ton of stuff to get out of my system that I didn’t know was alive.

My aunt told me that your mind can only process one emotion at a time. When dealing with trauma, it is largely incapable of deciphering things it doesn’t want to recognize as part of the problem. That’s why things move so slowly. One minute, I think I’ve processed enough to move past old problems, and the next I’m bludgeoned over the head with something I dealt with years ago. All the anger aside, I recognize that life is about struggle. I wholeheartedly embrace that part. It fuels my need to create, express, articulate. It is a part of me.

Image result for painting

As the air to cools and I remember last fall, I know why this is my favorite time of year. I send my blessings to the people who fill me up with frustration because it drives me to refocus. I feel the humidity change and I know it’s time to begin the next phase of evolution. I can’t wait to change I can’t wait to be different.

Letters I’ll never send pt.2

Dear mom

I’m frustrated that our relationship takes place over the telephone. I hate that I don’t recognize your hands or your face, that I don’t instinctively know how tall you are next to me; that I haven’t seen you age.

wrinkly-hands-01.jpg

I hate that I’ve had to create boundaries and walls because you don’t respect my space. I’m frustrated that it took you leaving to finally appreciate my value. I hate that leaving made you crazy and institutionalized. I am angry that there are so many times I’ve wanted you next to me, and now after all these years of learning to do it all without you, you’re soon to be released. I am terrified of seeing you all the time, of letting your craziness into my beautifully crafted existence. I have nurtured my soul for so long, healing it from the pain of your absence. I’m afraid of what I’ll have to do once you’re actually present. What kind of healing will I be forced to endure then? What kind of anger or apathy will course through me at that point?

title-061815-anger_tcm7-188743.jpg

I hate to say this, but I think you should stay where you are, alone in Bakersfield where you can’t hurt anyone else. But I also know I don’t believe that cuz I’m kind of curious to study you and your strange tendencies. Like some sort of flower I planted and forgot about.

For so long I mourned your loss and now I’ll be mourning your arrival. It’s so strange that time moved by so quickly. I never thought this time would come. I remember being 12 thinking, wow 14 years that’ll never get here fast enough. It’s been a long time coming and I wish I could just press pause and slow it all down.

090528_morningritual.jpg

I know I’ll never send you this draft and I have a couple other letters where I call you a bunch of ugly names and say terrible things. I think I even wrote you a hate poem if that’s what I should call it. A hate poem. Lots of stuff your devout head would cringe hearing. Then I think about the meeting we had last where you said all those nasty things about daddy and manipulated me into visiting you and all the torturous terrible crap you pulled TEN YEARS LATER after you claimed you had changed and now I realize more and more all the things your brother and sister said about you were one hundred percent true and I really DO remember more than I want to because I’ve repressed so much evil stuff you did just so that I could actually enjoy talking to you on the phone. I used to pray I could compartmentalize like all the men I’ve dated. I realize I already have that talent, I just only apply it when it comes to you.

I hate that I enjoyed our phone conversation yesterday. I hate that we actually laughed and I wasn’t furious with you when we hung up. Because annoyingly enough, I felt a lot better when the call ended. I felt like I had lifted myself up and began more healing.

Sometimes I wonder if school is just my alone time. Like my whole life revolves around you and your actions and then I go to school for a semester and it becomes about me again and when it ends, I finally have the energy to think about my feelings. And I hate that I feel like I ALWAYS NEED TO DO DEAL WITH MY FEELINGS. I hate that I’m also grateful for them. I hate that I do not regret the way things have gone and that I wouldn’t want to be anyone else or have a different life because for so long and as countless journals full of hate poems over the years will tell you, I used to. Acceptance is a bittersweet feeling I have come to terms with and yet I find myself rebelling against my own acceptance. And now the ramblings of my once angsty self have quieted and yeah, fuck you.

I feel much better now, thank you for being my constant outlet for anger. Now onto the next draft, the one that won’t hurt your feelings.

typewriter468312609.jpg

These women would make ice if you let them

GcrkMpBcp

            Feelings for me get pretty tricky. I used to feel them so much and so often, I had to turn them off for a long time. Eventually that would erupt into some kind of giant crying scene complete with me writing poems for hours and smudging around the ink with my tears, feeling very sorry for myself wondering how the world could have wronged me so. But then again that was fourteen for most I believe. Then all those angry years took all the tears and turned themselves into screams and broken glass from all the bottles I smashed in my alley when I couldn’t figure out what to do with all those feelings.

            It’s taken some time but I don’t really do any of those things anymore. I know part of the mess was hormones but it was also that my mom and I were learning how to grow up together. She went through a lot of passive aggressive attitudes and dirty maneuvers before she became someone I wanted to talk to. She told me I was a druggy (because I’d smoked weed and drank alcohol at a friend’s house in high school). She told me I was neglecting her because I didn’t come to visit more than twice a year – even though it’s a four and half hour drive (one way) and I was only fifteen. She called me repeatedly throughout the day to talk to me even if my friends were around and I couldn’t hang up because of the guilt I felt if I didn’t stay on the phone – not to mention the manipulation I’d be unwittingly forced to endure for days (even weeks) on end.

h-k-d-Man-walking-away-e1386970539263

            And then I she wrote me her last horrible, seven page “intervention” letter for my 18th birthday and I didn’t talk to her for a year. She stopped. We’ve both grown up since then.

            It took me a long time to visit her after I started talking to her again. I’ve been back once or twice since my 21st birthday.

            But it doesn’t fail to amaze me each time she makes me feel better when I don’t even know I’m down. Since I’ve never had a conventional mother-daughter relationship, I’ve never had one to compare myself to. I’ve seen things from a window I’ve always looked in on but never experienced. And I still don’t really know what it is that I’m a part of. It’s like a horribly unhealthy relationship that finally blossomed. I feel like our bond is kindred to tales of those old, aging sisters that live off in some secluded house on the top of a hill somewhere who spend their days making jam and painting.

            Whenever there’s a separation from someone who’s supposed to be an instrumental part of your life and they come back, there’s this awkwardness. What do we do now? How do we act? Where do I put my hands? Is it okay to laugh at this? Am I holding on too long? Can we sit in comfortable silence? What now? And even at visiting, there’s still a little bit of that. But over the phone and via letter, it’s completely washed away. Ironically enough, I feel closer to her when I only hear her voice than when I hold her hand. Because in person, she’s still a stranger to me — but her voice, I know it by heart.

            She tells me I’m a good person, that she wants me to dream big, that I’m smart, tough, strong, loved, needed, beautiful. She tells me things I’ve never known I needed to hear. My dad has always said those things (albeit sparingly, he stresses the intelligence thing, that I’m the spitting image of him and therefore beautiful, all in good humor of course) but for whatever reason, hearing it from her makes it feel a little realer. And I feel bad that I didn’t know I was unsatisfied with my dad’s validation but to be honest, a mother’s love is different. Plus, considering she’s somewhat of a hardened OG nowadays it’s even more of a ego boost than it might’ve been before.

thumbs-up-orangutan2

She told me today that she makes 15 cents an hour. That she’s happy she got a new job and took the pay cut even though she was making significantly more before (enough to support herself). She said being able to work at night and see the moon and be surrounded by quiet is worth more than money. She said it was the first time she’d been outside at night in nearly ten years. That made me cherish the moonlight a little bit more.

 

Fluff & Mold

Image
Sometimes, because of all the events that have happened with my mom, I forget to remember my dad. Which is a shame because he’s probably the most genuinely good person I know. I’ve heard it said that daughters look for men like their fathers. I really hope that’s true. It used to kind of freak me out a little, I’m not sure why but it did; the idea that I’d be with someone like him.

When you’re little, it’s so easy to see the faults in a person, especially family. When you get older, I suppose the only thing you really try to overcome is that stupid voice in your head that gets judgmental and cynical, the one that tells you what you should and shouldn’t do based on even sillier reasons, ideas you develop about someone when they’re based on nothing but fiction.

I’ve had this anxious voice in my head telling me who I should be and what I should do for most of my conscious adult life and the strange part is my dad is nothing like that. I have no idea where that voice came from. I’d like to say it’s my mom’s fault, but I really don’t know if I can blame that part on her. He’s the only one who’s never hurt me. He’s kind of dork sometimes but as the years go by, I’ve come to cherish that about him. His heart is so kind, so understanding, so sweet.

 

Image

When I was around five, I stole money from the man who cleaned our fish tank. My mom wasn’t looking and I’m not sure why I did it but the minute I was alone with the stack of twenties on the table, I grabbed a few and stuffed them between the couch cushions. When the man counted his money and asked my mom why she’d shorted him, she was probably so embarrassed she gave him a fat tip to compensate. I don’t know how much money I took or why I did it but I do know that my mom was furious. Her lips curled up in a snarl when I finally fessed up and told her, they turned white around the edges like they did the time I told her I hated her for throwing away all my toys.

She did that periodically, decide we had too many dolls and throw them all away in giant white trash bags, calling my sister and me spoiled brats for manipulating my dad into buying us things.

Manipulate was one of the first “big” words I learned. “Don’t manipulate your sister” “don’t manipulate your dad” “don’t try to manipulate me”. To this day, I still have a problem with manipulation. I can twist any story to make myself the victim, I can use every excuse in the book, I can even look someone in the eye when I do it. Because I was always taught that lying by omission wasn’t actually lying. So I learned how to fluff and snip out the parts I liked or didn’t like. I could just learn to laugh at jokes I didn’t understand so I wouldn’t have to feel stupid asking questions.

When she dropped me off at my dad’s house later, he picked me up and asked me why I was crying. I had to tell him what I did and express my shame. The only thing he said was “don’t worry honey, you don’t ever have to steal. I’d rather just give you money than have you feel like you’d need to steal”.

I think that’s when it started. When it occurred to me that my dad was a softie and I could go around twisting the truth. If I could logically reason out to him why I didn’t deserve to be grounded for yelling at my sister, he’d acknowledge it and let me off the hook. His only exception was violence. You kick your sister, you’re dead and there’s absolutely no way of getting out of it.

So I learned to give the world’s worst guilt trips. I learned how to say the meanest possible things I could think of to make you wish you were wrong. I learned how to snarl just like my mother and I want to say it’s genetic, that snarl, but really I think I never forgot how small it made me feel to see my mother’s lips curl in such a way, to see the blood drain from the edges as her eyes turned into slits and all I wanted to do was curl up in my closet and forget I was alive.

Image

And yet, all my dad was trying to do was get me to use my words. What a shame the things I did with that lesson.

I learned cruelty all by myself.

Willfully inflicting it on everyone around me because I was angry. Slashing my father’s heart when it suited my fancy. Vomiting up derision just because I could.

And for all the things I wish I could have done differently in my life, I am grateful I can see the malice in that part of me, that cold bitch that lives deep in there somewhere. And I think it’s because of the warmth and innocence in my father’s face that I’ve come to detest that nasty side. I think it’s because of his kindness that I fight everyday to be a better, nicer person.

To this day, I don’t think you’ll find me go a day without smiling. It took me a long time to embrace that teaching but it’s taken me quite a long way.

I was me and she was she

            I visited my mom today, one on one for the first time in ten years. I knew even before going into it that I was building it up to be bigger than it needed to be so that when I finally got there, it would be better than I expected. I do that a lot, spice up the mysterious and end up finding out reality is a lot better than I could have hoped for.

Image

            I was scared to see her. When I finally got there, I must say I was strangely peaceful. I cried a lot today. I can say truthfully that not a single tear was shed in sadness. It was all out of gratitude. I am grateful to say she’s my mother.

            We sat down next to each other and talked for a few hours. Those hours are more precious to me than anything I can try to explain. I didn’t have any roles to fill. I wasn’t the older sister, the middle sister, or the friendly one in the group. I was just myself. I was just my mother’s daughter. She wasn’t just an inmate either, she was my mom. I was me and she was she. Which is more than we’ve ever been.

            I have this fantasy for when she gets out that we’ll own a horse ranch or some kind of autoshop out in the countryside. We’ll work on the horses or cars or bikes together and she’ll get a big dog and name him Honey or something and we’ll spend our warm summer evenings sitting on the porch drinking lemonade and talking until the moon is well in the sky.

            I can hear the crickets and smell the cold soil and I can even feel the blankets we’ll have wrapped around our knees. The lemonade is perfectly sweet and I can tell it’s not from mix or a can. It’ll be fresh squeezed and homemade.

Image

            When I visit, the most profound thing that I have come to understand is that once I enter those doors, everyone around me is exactly the same. There is no social, economic, or political status to be found. Age? What age? We’re all protected by this filmy prison layer that joins us. Families coming to see loved ones, inmates waiting to be visited. We’re all just people trying to pass the time together. There is no need to create more barriers than the ones that already exist. It’s unfathomably humbling.

            Some people find that feeling in nature, or travel. I find mine in prison.

            I took a couple years away from her when I turned eighteen. I’m glad I did because had I not, I don’t think I’d ever have come back to be where I am right this moment. I write her now, I look forward to her phone calls, and I cherish the moments we have together. I miss her less because I don’t hate the world for taking away the mother I once had, but am grateful for the woman I’ve been given. She’s grown so much and she’s so much nicer and I can’t say she’d have turned out this good if she wasn’t forced to change. She never would have changed if I hadn’t taken the time for space. So all things lead up to now and I wouldn’t want to imagine it any different.

            I have the chance to learn from her mistakes and actually be grateful for my parents before they pass. I’ve been given the gift of living for the moment.

            So for today, I’ve got to say I’m happy. I’m happy to be alive and I’m happy to share it with everyone and I’m happy. I’m just really frickin happy.

 Image

Tiptoeing Comfort


I had a day today. Usually I can handle the world, but today it just kind of felt like the walls were crushing me. I have a family friend I usually call for advice but she didn’t answer. She’s had quite a bit going on in her life for about two years now and I can’t say I didn’t expect to get her voicemail.

The strange thing is, my mom called me. She called me three times while I was grabbing coffee and I didn’t see the calls until I got back to my car. I kind of broke down a little. I hadn’t realized I really needed to hear her voice, listen to her tell me I’m a good person.

powerpuff_girls_answer_phone_wallpaper_hd-other

My hormones are totally out of whack. I’ve seen a few specialists who at first didn’t believe I had a problem. Recently I found a woman who’s totally awesome and sent me out for all the right tests. So for now, I’ve got support in that area. So sometimes I have rough days where my hormones play a huge roll in what I feel. Turns out, it’s the same for my mom.

Because we weren’t very close for a period of time, I think I forgot that she and I are so similar. When I was little, we used to get sick at the same times, have bad days and good days at the same times. She’d call and say “hey bug, today is just one of those days” and I’d know exactly how she was feeling because I was too. We’ve always been connected like that. Part of me used to hate it because it meant my other half was over 500 miles away and she couldn’t be there when I needed help or a hug. I had to do it myself. It was really hard to learn how to do that. Especially when my little sister had no clue how to handle her own problems. I couldn’t let her do it alone so I became her mom for a long time. I made sure she always knew she was beautiful and had a good, warm heart. That there would never be a thing she could do that would be bad enough that I would stop loving her. I made sure she would always know that I would step up to bat for her at a moments notice. We’re sisters though, so it’s a little bit more difficult with the fighting and the rebellions in between. Nonetheless, I did my part.

Tomorrow I will sit down with her one on one for the first time in ten years (my dad just informed me it’s been ten, not nine like I thought). I will be completely unchaperoned and completely vulnerable. There is no one there to act as a barrier between us and keep the conversation light. She will just be my mother sitting across from me.

It scares me. It’s like some kind of twisted first date. To think that I haven’t been left alone with her in so long. It’s mind blowing to me. I don’t even know what that feels like anymore.

Lange-MigrantMother02

I was so glad when she called me back. I get so frustrated when our phone calls get shut off and the recording comes on telling us we have 60 seconds, 30 seconds left. And now I’ll have a full five hours or so to talk to her about just me. Which is just so foreign I don’t know what to do. And I know she’s scared too because when I’m scared, she’s scared.

I Just Keep Coming Back

For the longest time I was afraid of people. As I get older, I realize that’s a pretty common experience for most.

Image

            There’s always been a part of me obsessed with finding out everyone’s backstory, their personal history. When you look at me, you see a very white, pleasant girl. I made it my goal to find a way to shut out all my history and just live in the present. It’s really hard to dwell, seeing as all it does it taint your experiences with everyone around you. You can’t see past the fog of your own problems.

            When I write short stories and other things, I always try to explain away the reasons that people act the way they do, make up reasons for why they might be acting standoffish, why they feel the need to make everything into a joke, how I might do some of the same things to protect myself. I like to make everything a joke, but I’m also incredibly sensitive. Especially when it comes to anything creative.

            In psychology, I’ve heard about the famous comfort test. Where they took two baby primates and tested whether they desired comfort in the form of a mesh mother, covered in soft material, or a hard wired mother without the soft fabric, that held a bottle full of milk. The baby monkeys reached over and drank the milk off the hard-wire mother while they clung to the soft material of the other wire frame.

Image

            I know there are a lot of things I will never understand. I’ve never had someone there to teach me how to wear make up, so I don’t wear any. I’ve never understood people who can touch others without thinking twice, even if it’s just a brush against the shoulder. It took me forever to understand that a hug when you’re sad was a good thing. It doesn’t help that my dad isn’t an overly affectionate person. When I turned 13, he stopped ruffling my hair or touching my shoulder, suddenly afraid that I’d think he was weird if he showed me affection.

            For years I thought he didn’t love me because I could count on a hand how many times he’d hugged me in a year. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d held me when I cried. I couldn’t remember the last hair ruffle because it’d been so many years since.

            My mother told me it was a generation gap and that the way he expressed himself was through providing for his family. I don’t think he understands how to get close to people either. It took me years to comprehend how much like him I am even if he claims I’m a clone of my mom.

            My mother was shipped off to live with her grandparents in Indiana when she was four years old and yet my grandmother chose to keep her younger sister and older brother with her. My mom got pregnant at fifteen with a half black child and was effectively cast out of her religious and racist household in Indiana, forcing her to move to California to live with my grandpa who had a crazy new wife and evil stepchildren. She broke into those storage cabinets that hang in apartment garages with her newborn baby, my brother, until she found a safe haven with his dad’s family. She did a lot of drugs, was very violent, and completely unstable.

            I could keep going, and there’s really so much more I could say to explain away her actions, make excuses for her being so selfish and so ungrateful for the awesome life she once had. I could fill you in on her backstory to make you see.

            The adage, “a picture says a million words” isn’t why I love photography as an artistic medium. I love the kind of photos that make you wonder why. They make you wonder where the person came from to make them like that. It encourages you to see their story.

            I used to let the fear of loss consume me, fill me up with anxiety and worry and regret all the moments I couldn’t control. I felt like I needed to give her back as much of the time she lost as I could. So now, I freeze as much time as I can for her. I document my life and the people I come across so that when she gets out, I can sit down with her, in a room that isn’t grey and filled with other inmates or guards, where people aren’t counting the minutes they have left with their loved ones, and I can actually show her the life I’ve lead.

            So it’s strange to realize that even after all my work to shut out my history, all roads just lead me back where I’m forced to acknowledge that my history does not only define me, it empowers me.

           

Image 

Spring Cleaning

Image

 

For several years it was really hard to get through all the letters. Most people relish the idea of receiving snail mail and it’s because it’s probably pretty rare nowadays to correspond with paper and pen. Now I let them pile up until there’s a decent sized stack and subsequently read through the cards, letters, and sift through the pictures I can’t display because they’d stir up too many unwanted questions.

When I used to go off to sleep away camp for those two brief weeks every summer, I checked for letters everyday. Before my mom went away, I think I got a handful over the course of 6 years, most of which from my dad.

Today, I have bins and boxes filled with letters and envelopes (because I keep almost all of them). I have hand stitched purses dyed with pink koolaid. I have really old plastic baggies of cakes, so far crushed that they resemble brightly colored cookies, from all the birthdays she sent them to me.

I have more bibles than I can ever need, all dog-earred, annotated and highlighted. She’s converted a few times so there are more than a few I don’t know if ill ever flip through. I have scripture cutouts, pamphlets, and bookmarks. More bookmarks than a Barnes & nobles. I could quite literally start making money selling them wholesale to various religious sects around town.

For a few years she sent me these plastic cups. We use them for cat food and other random tasks now but for a little while, I treasured them. They were detailed with little logos or phrases that she paid other women to do for her and in exchange she traded food or coffee or sandals. Every holiday I had to tell her through gritted teeth, which new design I’d like. I have tinker bell, surfers, cars, basketballs, footballs. I think we both ran out of ideas eventually.

I used to keep all of her clothes. My mother had a walk in closet, so there were QUITE a few items. They smelled like her perfume that mixed in with the smell of cedar like the big door framing the room. I’ve since thrown most of them out. Her old living room couch still sits in our yard, moldy from months of rain.

I have boxes for the jewelry she sends me. The only things I actually use. She sends beaded bracelets and earrings but the earrings are so big and dangly I’d never wear them. The bracelets are delicate and beautiful.

My brother doesn’t wear the ones she sends him but I keep them secretly and add them to the boxes. I never realized I’d have so much stuff I could never throw away. 

 

Image

Finite Infinity

Ernst Haas

 

The older I get, the more I realize how finite everything is, how many less roads there seem to be. It’s just a mind trick I know. But I’ll be 21 in about a month from now. In July, it’ll be 9 years since my mother was incarcerated. When I first heard what her sentence was, I thought I would never get through it, never understand what 16 years felt like to hold in your hands. Now I realize that I’ve been hoping for the clock to speed up all this time, hoping I get older faster. But the older I get, the more I wish I could hold on to each passing moment just a little longer.

Quicker than I can realize, I’ll be getting married, having kids, taking care of myself. My elders will pass on and ill replace them as my children step up to take the plate. That inertia that propelled me into my newfound adulthood keeps pushing whether you want it to or not.

It’s hard to imagine a single lifetime. For some reason it only just occurred to me I would be living once. Reincarnation or not, my conscious mind will only exist in this lifetime once. And that alone makes me so afraid, so anxious. I hope I don’t make too many mistakes, miss out on too many memories.

Confessions from a Prisoner’s Daughter

When I was at the young age of twelve, my mother was sentenced to a sixteen-year sentence for crimes I won’t mention.

Ernst Haas

There are worse things in life than death. Things happen to people that can’t always be salvaged by a category. Whenever I think about her, I always find myself gauging whether or not the person in front of me can handle what I have to say or if they might raise their eyebrows and pinch their lips like I just farted in public or took my top off.

There are worse things than death when it comes to people. I’m not talking about that gut-wrenching feeling of heartbreak, or the sting of betrayal. I’m talking about patience. The biggest fate I’ve ever been dealt is years of patience.

Her face was all over the news. I had to switch schools, sell our childhood home, and move in with my father and Alzheimer’s ridden, eighty year old grandmother. The day I came home to the dozens of red and blue lights glaring in front of my house, I saw my mother in real life for the last time.

Today, it’s been nearly ten years.

There are worse things than death because I know it to be true. I can’t say that death isn’t the worst kind of experience; that bleak realization that you’ll never see someone ever again. I can say that for years I wished I could say she was dead. I prayed that I’d be able to live my life and move on from the childhood I’d been forced to grow through. I can’t say that my life is horrible. I can’t even say that it’s miserable. To be frank, my life is fantastic. I have friends and my father, sister, step mother, brothers. I have loved and been loved. But I’ve had to wait.

For years I took it really hard. I used it as an excuse to act out, do drugs, disobey the rules. I used it for a pity card. As if life was an eternally moving monopoly board, the pieces could be manipulated with one simple statement.

I had the power to surprise people, control them with my misfortune. I took solace in that. I selfishly used her position to eliminate people, shatter smiles, influence their opinions.

In some ways I wonder if that was the wrong or right thing to do. Nearly everyone does it. They all want to have been through some horrible misfortune that is worse than yours. I don’t think I’ve ever had someone react appropriately to my story and I’m not sure what exactly it is I’m expecting whenever I pop off with, “yeah? Well my mom’s in prison. Has been since I was twelve and I’ve been in mourning ever since”. They either tell me they’re sorry and subsequently change the subject once the silence has become too uncomfortable, or they start their own expedition down their so called path of misery and despair.

I can’t say I wish she were dead. I love my mom. I really do. I love that she’s inadvertently made me face all these seriously ridiculous situations, pushed me through to the end of unacceptable to finally learn to accept myself. She’s taught me a lot more than many mothers I know have tried to teach their children. She’s pretty damn tough if you ask me. Some things I’ve heard in the last few years have confirmed it. She literally had to fight her way to the place where she is now and she’s got the ink to prove it.

But I think my anger comes from the fact that she’s not a bad person. That she was –for a short while- a selfish, thoughtless person who inevitably changed my life forever. She took away tradition, swept up my young, sweet life and shuffled it all up to land haphazardly on the drawing board. It took me so long to finally manage all the pieces into a working order. It took me forever to accept that I’m not broken, defective, or unworthy of love. I am horrified to think of the life I might have lead had she stuck around through it. I’d be a shallow, self-centered, Barbie doll with no grander thoughts of life, or questions of the deeper parts of the soul. I’d be lifeless.

When people ask me where she is or who she is, I have the same generic “safety” response. She lives in Fresno, she got divorced and hasn’t really been in my life since she moved away. She’s a dental assistant and she’s got a boob job that doesn’t really fit her anymore since she gained so much weight. We look like twins and I even have her voice. She’s from Indiana and she moved here when she was fifteen because she got pregnant with my brother. She’s a drug addict and she wasted the good part of her life because she decided to binge on a two week cocaine party that cost her $90,000 and our house. She was evil for a little bit. Forced me into eating disorders because of her own twisted body image. She made fun of me for having a bigger dress size than her when I was ten years old. She was a mean old hag and she never appreciated anything.

When I was in third grade, she tried to kill herself because her current husband wanted a divorce. She took a bottle of sleeping pills and tried to run herself off the bridge in our minivan with remote controlled sliding doors.

My dad got me a dog because he knew I needed some semblance of stability when I was being carted off from house to house.

gs-2d3http://allfinearts.com/very-beautiful-drawings/

We had more drug dealers and thieves in our house than I’ve ever been able to understand.

When she was hopped up on painkillers and dope, she had a stroke and the right side of her body clenched up and all she could do with her hand was make a crab claw type shape and whine about being tired.

She slept all the time and she never took me to school. I had to walk home, rain or shine.

And yet, I’m a white female, upper middle class, I went to private school and I’ve pretty much never been forced to do anything except the dishes and clean up dog shit. I’ve always been encouraged to succeed and my dad has been my eternal ally. My brother has always been there to give me advice, considering he’s nine years older than me and half black, which makes for a pretty interesting situation when you travel in public with a tall black guy with an afro, carting along with him two very white, very young sisters. People give you some pretty strange looks.

Right now, I know where I belong. I have no doubts about my sense of self, I don’t have a drug problem, I’ve survived to the late old age of twenty one and I even have people around me who’ve somewhat caught up to the nastier sides of fate. I can relate to quite a few of them.

But as soon as I pull out the prison card, people either shut down or compete. I don’t know how long it will be before I ever have someone look me in the eye and say, they’ve been waiting to hear a more fucked up story than mine, and that takes the cake. But that would be too sadistic and self-centered so I’d probably never want to talk to them again for fear of growing some sick ego cause I’m the kid with a mom in jail.

ccjail.jpg