My mother is an addict. She always has been—from what I know.
I was born in 1988. My brother was born in 1990.
In 1992, my mother went to jail for a year, for embezzlement. I remember the day she told us. She took us to the Round Table Pizza a couple miles away from our house, and told us that she was going to go away for a while, because she was going to jail. She had told us, in public, so I would make a scene. Scott had simply asked for some quarters, to play a game. He was only two; he didn’t understand. I, at the wise age of four, however, knew exactly what that meant. I was going to lose another parent.
When my parents had separated earlier that year, I lost my dad. We saw him very rarely. We lived in the basement of my grandparents’ house, and my mom worked a full time job in San Francisco, and went to dental school at night, while my grandmother watched us. For a while, it seemed, she had her life together.
We moved in with my dad, in a nice little house in Marin. Scott and I each had our own room, and we had a backyard. Dad’s Girlfriend Number 4 moved in with us and brought along Sailor, the cutest little dog ever.
My mom got out of jail, moved to a place with a friend in San Francisco, and we saw her every other weekend. Until she went back to jail, for failing her drug test. She claims she was on pain meds for her back. The test, apparently showed otherwise, and in she went, for another nine months.
When she got out of jail for good, she moved in with my now-stepdad. Unbeknownst to me, my dad had started using cocaine regularly with Girlfriend Number 7. He decided one day that we were too much for him to handle, called my mom, and told her to pick us up the next day—that he was done. He sobered up around six years ago, and we have never been as close as we are now. I am so proud of him. I am proud to be his daughter.
Just before my eighth birthday, we moved in with my mom, her boyfriend (now my stepdad), HIS parents, and his two daughters who visited every other weekend. It was a very full house.
Michael was born in 1998.
Mom was diagnosed with Keinbock’s disease, and had surgery to help treat it. She was prescribed heavy pain pills, but was never the same.
She lost her job because she didn’t show up very often. She slept for days at a time, and then she would be up for a week. We fought incessantly. We even had the police called on us at least twice (maybe more). I threatened to kill myself late my junior year, my mom called the police, and I was put on a 24-hour suicide watch at the hospital. The was one of the worst nights of my life.
When I was in high school, I had to take Michael to school every morning, so I was at least an hour late to school on a regular basis. I was working a full-time job and attempting to graduate high school, because I wasn’t allowed to use any of the child support for us. That was used to fund my mom’s need for expensive clothes, makeup, and perfume. I had to buy my own prom dress, prom tickets, yearbooks, school supplies, and school clothes, etc. I was even asked, a couple times, to buy groceries for the family out of my paycheck.
My mom kicked me out of the house within a week of graduating. I think we’ve spoken four times in the last three-and-a-half years. I’m not sorry I don’t have a relationship with her, because it was her choice to not get sober, and put effort into our relationship, or any relationship with any of her children. Unfortunately, Scott is stuck in that house, now, and the only reason he’s still there is Michael. Michael is only twelve, and he doesn’t know any better. It’s so unfair to them. One day I will prove to him he deserves more than what he’s been given.
My main goal in life is to a mom. My second goal is to be a better mom than mine was. I didn’t have as bad a childhood as some, but had a worse one than most. I don’t try to compare my life to others, because it simply isn’t fair. My level of “horrible” may be someone’s “decent” and vice versa.
I don’t celebrate Mother’s Day with my mother. I celebrate Mother’s Day, with the women I choose to be my Motherly Role Models. My apartment manager, Susan, is the closest thing I have to a mother. My mother-in-law will be receiving a card, and flowers, if funds allow it. And my father will get a card for at least always trying to be there for me, even when he was physically, emotionally, or mentally able to. I never once doubted he loved me.
