Placing the Blame
I blame it on my mother.
It took me years of therapy to get to that point. I blame it all on my mother. I blame a lot of my problems on the fact that she left when I was young, and I blame even more on the fact that she didn’t come back until she was dying, and made me endure that hell. I didn’t even want to look at her. All I saw was a bald head, bloated cheeks, hollow eyes. I didn’t see my mother anymore. I just saw the shell that the chemo had left behind. I spent most of my time out in the yard trying to avoid her. The horrible stench filled the house as the chemotherapy ensured that nothing she ate actually made it all the way to her stomach. My sister said that all she really wanted was to hold me one last time before she died, but I wouldn’t let her. I thought it was cruel that she came back and left me with her sickness as her memory and her legacy. It was worse than leaving without a word. I was ten years old.
My sister, in spite of the fact that she was older, more aware, and more involved with my mother’s sickness and care, seems to have let it all go, like it didn’t have any effect on her. She managed to remain a top student, be named cheerleading captain and homecoming queen, and go off to a top college in the northeast. I struggled through school, drank heavily, smoked pot, had more meaningless sex than I care to remember, and barely completed my one and only semester of community college. I’ve been at the bookstore ever since, and I blame it on my mother.
On those rare occasions where I would actually try to build a relationship with a guy, I would invariably have to go home and meet his family. The home-cooked meal was welcomed – any meal is welcomed when you live on my budget – but it always led to that awkward conversation about parents. His mother would ask, “And what do your parents do?” My last parent dinner saw me, way beyond the legal limit for alcohol consumption at a family event, answering this question with, “My father works two jobs to ensure that he never has to come home and face reality, while mother’s emaciated, cancer-riddled corpse is six feet underground at St. Stephens cemetery.” That didn’t go over very well. His mother’s face twisted in an attempt to hold back tears, and she ran to the kitchen to try to compose herself. His jaw nearly hit the table; I'd neglected to mention it to him, either. We broke up soon after when he told me that he couldn't trust me to be honest with him. I wasn't surprised. I wasn't disappointed by the outcome.
After that debacle, I went through a string of men of various ages, none of whom lasted more than a week. There was the guy who wouldn't have sex unless he was blindfolded, which didn't do much for my self-esteem. There was the college student who had an exquisitely talented tongue; the only problem was that he was far too stoned to be interested in sex all that often, a pity when you find one who can do it so well. I also spent a weekend with a man older than my father, who wined and dined me, bought me expensive gifts, and only managed to get it up once.
These hollow relationships never amounted to anything and each one left me lonelier than I had ever felt before. I spent my solitary nights sitting alone in my apartment with my cat, playing with the knife and wondering what reason I had for continuing with my life. And I blame it on my mother.
When she left, I was six years old. It was my first day of kindergarten. I came home, dressed in my little plaid dress, and she wasn't there. The door was locked and I had no place to go. I waited on the front steps for hours before my sister came home, and we waited together until after dark. My father finally arrived home close to midnight and found us asleep together on the front porch, waiting for someone who would never come. He knew immediately, I'm sure, but I didn't. Every day I waited for her to return, to braid my hair and make my breakfast. But days turned into weeks and I learned to make my own breakfast and brush my own unruly hair. I soon outgrew my old clothes and took to wearing oversized hand-me-downs from my sister, who in turn borrowed clothes from her friends. My father largely ignored us, so my sister and I lived a fairly independent existence.
Christmas passed, then my birthday, her birthday and another Christmas. I stopped hoping for cards or gifts or phone calls. I just tried to forget her entirely. It was four years before she returned, out of the blue, standing at the front door with large gold hoop earrings and a bald head that reminded me of Mr. Clean. I didn't even recognize her. Her face was puffy and bloated from months of chemotherapy, her eyes looked dull and vacant like those of a doll, and her smile looked weak and distant. I felt like she was looking through me, trying to see the life she left behind. My sister stood behind me, tall and looking newly grown up as she passed into her teen years. She welcomed my mother with open arms. I stood rigid while she wrapped her bony arms around me. The hot sunlight of that summer day was so starkly different from the cold breath that she brought into the house.
They had given her two months to live, and she wouldn't even last that, but she brought an air of death into the house with her first steps across the threshold. My sister spent the summer playing nursemaid, making sure that she took her medications and drank plenty of fluids, until my mother's body refused to accept her help. She died on a humid summer day with no breeze. I clearly remember a large housefly buzzing through the living room as she lay on the couch, her breathing labored and heavy until it stopped altogether. My sister held her hand and wept. I walked outside and sat on the steps, listening to the sounds of the normal kids out playing. I knew that I was never going to be normal again.
The funeral was sparsely attended. Not many people even realized that she had come back. The few people who knew her from before felt awkward about coming to an event so personal. They whispered thoughtful comments about death and loss and moving on, but they didn't realize that I'd lost her years before, and with the exception of fresh bitterness, I had already moved on.
Fourteen years later, I sit alone in my apartment, playing with the knife and blaming my mother.
It took me years of therapy to get to that point. I blame it all on my mother. I blame a lot of my problems on the fact that she left when I was young, and I blame even more on the fact that she didn’t come back until she was dying, and made me endure that hell. I didn’t even want to look at her. All I saw was a bald head, bloated cheeks, hollow eyes. I didn’t see my mother anymore. I just saw the shell that the chemo had left behind. I spent most of my time out in the yard trying to avoid her. The horrible stench filled the house as the chemotherapy ensured that nothing she ate actually made it all the way to her stomach. My sister said that all she really wanted was to hold me one last time before she died, but I wouldn’t let her. I thought it was cruel that she came back and left me with her sickness as her memory and her legacy. It was worse than leaving without a word. I was ten years old.
My sister, in spite of the fact that she was older, more aware, and more involved with my mother’s sickness and care, seems to have let it all go, like it didn’t have any effect on her. She managed to remain a top student, be named cheerleading captain and homecoming queen, and go off to a top college in the northeast. I struggled through school, drank heavily, smoked pot, had more meaningless sex than I care to remember, and barely completed my one and only semester of community college. I’ve been at the bookstore ever since, and I blame it on my mother.
On those rare occasions where I would actually try to build a relationship with a guy, I would invariably have to go home and meet his family. The home-cooked meal was welcomed – any meal is welcomed when you live on my budget – but it always led to that awkward conversation about parents. His mother would ask, “And what do your parents do?” My last parent dinner saw me, way beyond the legal limit for alcohol consumption at a family event, answering this question with, “My father works two jobs to ensure that he never has to come home and face reality, while mother’s emaciated, cancer-riddled corpse is six feet underground at St. Stephens cemetery.” That didn’t go over very well. His mother’s face twisted in an attempt to hold back tears, and she ran to the kitchen to try to compose herself. His jaw nearly hit the table; I'd neglected to mention it to him, either. We broke up soon after when he told me that he couldn't trust me to be honest with him. I wasn't surprised. I wasn't disappointed by the outcome.
After that debacle, I went through a string of men of various ages, none of whom lasted more than a week. There was the guy who wouldn't have sex unless he was blindfolded, which didn't do much for my self-esteem. There was the college student who had an exquisitely talented tongue; the only problem was that he was far too stoned to be interested in sex all that often, a pity when you find one who can do it so well. I also spent a weekend with a man older than my father, who wined and dined me, bought me expensive gifts, and only managed to get it up once.
These hollow relationships never amounted to anything and each one left me lonelier than I had ever felt before. I spent my solitary nights sitting alone in my apartment with my cat, playing with the knife and wondering what reason I had for continuing with my life. And I blame it on my mother.
When she left, I was six years old. It was my first day of kindergarten. I came home, dressed in my little plaid dress, and she wasn't there. The door was locked and I had no place to go. I waited on the front steps for hours before my sister came home, and we waited together until after dark. My father finally arrived home close to midnight and found us asleep together on the front porch, waiting for someone who would never come. He knew immediately, I'm sure, but I didn't. Every day I waited for her to return, to braid my hair and make my breakfast. But days turned into weeks and I learned to make my own breakfast and brush my own unruly hair. I soon outgrew my old clothes and took to wearing oversized hand-me-downs from my sister, who in turn borrowed clothes from her friends. My father largely ignored us, so my sister and I lived a fairly independent existence.
Christmas passed, then my birthday, her birthday and another Christmas. I stopped hoping for cards or gifts or phone calls. I just tried to forget her entirely. It was four years before she returned, out of the blue, standing at the front door with large gold hoop earrings and a bald head that reminded me of Mr. Clean. I didn't even recognize her. Her face was puffy and bloated from months of chemotherapy, her eyes looked dull and vacant like those of a doll, and her smile looked weak and distant. I felt like she was looking through me, trying to see the life she left behind. My sister stood behind me, tall and looking newly grown up as she passed into her teen years. She welcomed my mother with open arms. I stood rigid while she wrapped her bony arms around me. The hot sunlight of that summer day was so starkly different from the cold breath that she brought into the house.
They had given her two months to live, and she wouldn't even last that, but she brought an air of death into the house with her first steps across the threshold. My sister spent the summer playing nursemaid, making sure that she took her medications and drank plenty of fluids, until my mother's body refused to accept her help. She died on a humid summer day with no breeze. I clearly remember a large housefly buzzing through the living room as she lay on the couch, her breathing labored and heavy until it stopped altogether. My sister held her hand and wept. I walked outside and sat on the steps, listening to the sounds of the normal kids out playing. I knew that I was never going to be normal again.
The funeral was sparsely attended. Not many people even realized that she had come back. The few people who knew her from before felt awkward about coming to an event so personal. They whispered thoughtful comments about death and loss and moving on, but they didn't realize that I'd lost her years before, and with the exception of fresh bitterness, I had already moved on.
Fourteen years later, I sit alone in my apartment, playing with the knife and blaming my mother.
posted by Ali at 8:07 PM
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