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Any Last Words?

Posted on by Jessica Ann

“I want to see her! I can handle it! I’m not a kid!”

Oh, how wrong was I?

In life, there are moments wherein someone tries to step into your autocratic regime of self-governance and offers their two cents, justifying their invasion by saying, ” ________ (mommy, uncle, school master, tribal leader) knows best.” In all honesty,they usually are right. But I was angry, bitter, confused, and sad. I was lost. I should have listened to my Nana, but I was blinded by my own ignorance and guilt, as well as the part of me that was desperately yearning to be considered as an adult, an equal of sorts. Tired of being treated as a kid, I wanted to sit at, to be welcomed at the revered “adult table” for once in my life.

“She’s not how you remember her. Death has changed her,” Nana pleaded with me to no avail.

But I was determined. I would see my mother. My mother.

I furiously shoved open the mahogany doors at the funeral home and marched down the aisle. As I approached the casket, I lost some of my initial resolve, and my cadence faltered as the cogs in my mind started reeling with latent processing. I had not seen her for several months. I took a deep gulp of precious air and peered into the cruel coffin that held my deceased mother in its wooden, mericless embrace.

The woman in there was and was not my mother. Her pale, alabaster cheeks were uncharacteristically puffy, the laugh lines that had once danced at the corners of her mouth were exaggeratedly chiseled, more defined. But underneath this deathly mask, I saw her. I saw my mother.

And all at once I had so many things that I wanted to say to this familiar stranger. I wanted to say that I loved her. That I missed her. That I was angry at her for leaving us. That I was sorry. Salty tears started to stream down my face forming an aqueous, gaping tapestry as I recalled the last time I had spoken to her…

My mother had recently been released from the hospital. I remember waking up to get ready before my grandfather was to arrive to take us to school. When I padded down the stairs to grab a quick breakfast, I found my mother walking around the house naked, muttering incoherently to herself. When I asked her where he clothes were and what she was doing, she just stared at me with glassy eyes. Her alcoholism had, at this point, ravaged her liver, making it difficult for her body to process proteins. She was hardly lucid. And I (fully aware of the nightcap that she had consumed several hours ago) was frustrated.

“You should get dressed. Pap will be here any minute.”

That was the last thing I would ever say to her. And I cannot tell you how much I regret it.

Maybe that’s why I habitually make a point of reminding those near and dear to my heart that I love them (sometimes, perhaps annoyingly, more than once) before I drive off in my car or hang up the phone. “I love you” are three words in this life that should not be left unsaid, and I will never make that mistake again. I hope that, before she passed, she knew that she meant the world to me. That I loved her.

Good Morning Sunshine

Posted on by Jessica Ann

“Jess…We’ve hit rock-bottom.”

Well then. That wasn’t exactly what I had been expecting when my mother had said she had something important to tell me and sat me down on the edge of my bed in our house in Maryland. And by house, I mean my grandparents’ basement, which had been converted into an apartment of sorts for my family when my mother took a leap of faith/self-respect and finally left my father’s sorry ass in Texas. No, I’m not bitter.

“Mom? What do you mean?,” I asked.

“We have nothing. There’s nothing left in my bank account, ” she replied.

I was tempted to reply, “Well, that’s nothing new,” but I somehow managed to restrain my 12-year-old self. My mother had developed a nasty habit of living child support check to child support check and had never been really good at keeping up with her finances. In fact, I was the one who balanced her checkbook on a weekly basis after she had taught me how to do so, and judging by the numerous entries for Midway Discount Beverages, my mother could have justifiably been considered our local liquor store’s most valued customer. No, I’m not bitter about that either.

If nothing else, my childhood inadvertently taught me the art of worrying.

“Mom, we don’t have food for our lunches tomorrow.”

“Mom, we don’t have gas in the car.”

“Mom, we are going to be late.”

“Mom, people are looking.”

“Mom, we don’t have money.”

Without fail, my mother would always reply, “Stop being a worry wart.“

Looking back on the ways things were and comparing it with how things are now, I am a bit disappointed to report that not much has changed. I still worry about what other people think of me. I still worry about the future, in all of its respects. I still worry about the problems of people whom I care for deeply, as well as others who are, quite frankly, undeserving of my concern. I still worry about the past, and whether or not I did the right thing.

I guess what I am trying to say is that I miss my mother, but I also miss the carefree, innocence-ridden childhood I never had.

Never Been Better

Posted on by Jessica Ann

“There is only one happiness in this life–to love and be loved” – George Sand

Bullshit.

Because I know for a fact that the color pink, consuming the all-American cheeseburger and french fries combo, running outside in sub-100-degree weather (welcome to Texas, y’all), and sleeping in past noon all have the power to stimulate the production of endorphins in my body to create the ever-elusive feeling of “happiness“. And all of aforementioned things are a whole hell of a lot less complicated than the concept of love, thank you very much.

For the past couple of weeks and as of right now, I have felt and still feel upset, confused, exhausted, angry, depressed, conflicted, and, interestingly enough, content…all at the same time? I miss my mother more than ever. At the same time, I am beyond grateful for the blessed network of family (my grandfather, grandmother, and brothers) and sincere friends (you know who you are) who have put up with my temperamental mood swings, my incessant worrying, my horrible habit of dropping off the face of the technological earth for days at a time (i.e. forgetting that I have a cell phone to answer and a Facebook page to maintain), and my mountain of other miscellaneous imperfections.

I’ve recently found myself repeatedly given the same nugget of advice: “Do what makes you happy“. In theory, this should be an enormously easy feat to accomplish, but my dilemma is that I am not entirely certain what makes me really and truly, inexplicably happy. I’ve found that trying to make yourself [while simultaneously making others] happy just seems to further complicate matters. And to top it all off, it seems that the only thing I am certain of is that I don’t know what I want.

I take that back.

I know that one day I want to be the proud owner of a bright pink moped. I know that I want to be successful in all of my pursuits. I know that I want to make my family proud of me. I know that my dream home that I envisioned for myself in the 3rd grade has not changed in the slightest-I still want it to have a balcony where I can eat breakfast while watching the sunrise and a grandiose library that will be home to thousands of beautiful books (which might very well be threatened by the distressing and unfortunate bankruptcy declaration issued by Borders). I know that I have an intangible, petrifying fear of being alone and unwanted, and that I want someone whose love and charisma will sweep me off feet. Pardon the cliche. I know that I never want to hurt anyone. And I know that I want to be happy.

Half of me is you, and the other half is yours…