Part One
At a very young age, I discover what love truly is: It was my father smelling my mother's hair with their legs intertwined, swinging and laughing, it was babysitter giving me the last cookie when I didn't understand she'd wanted it, it was the dark neighbor boy setting his guitar down so gently and with an unbelievable carefulness, though he'd previously slammed his hand down on the strings, over and over, it was me, growing up to discover that music could take me so far away, and consume me, and change my entire being, it was my best friend's willingness to drive to my house in the middle of the night with all of my favorite things to cheer me up. But most of all, it is the ultimate desire to be around some, to look past their flaws, to embrace their talents, and to show them loyalty and respect.
I had this memory I was so fond of, that I replayed in my head like a movie, pausing at the parts that made my heart warm. I was five years old, outside, barefoot, in the tall, grass. My lips consistently pursed in the attempt of blowing the biggest bubble, my mother with her camera ready. Unexpectedly, she raised her finger to her mouth and with a swift “shh” silenced my giggling. She motioned towards the upstairs window of our split level with her finger still pressed to her lips. Puzzled, I glanced up and my eyes fell upon my father, leaning out the window. He was singing. I now know that he was singing “Asleep” by the Smiths. My mother flashed me a bright smile, drew her camera from around her neck and to her face, and stealthily photographed my father singing to her favorite song.
I kept that picture everywhere; around my neck, in my locker, on my mirror, pressed into my favorite books, in the hole of my guitar. 4 years later, my father fell into a coma and never woke up. My mother tapped on my door, entered when I told her she could, and placed herself on the edge of my bed. Her eyes were red and swollen, but she still looked beautiful. She pressed her lips together; I sat up and wedged myself into her arms. She leaned into my red hair and began singing “Asleep.” Before she even made it to the chorus, she was choked out by her muffled sobs. I had never seen my mother cry; a single drop of salt water slid down my cheek and into her lap. “Baby, Alison, I love you.” “I love you too, mama.”
My life had gone on for 5 years before I truly understood my father wasn't coming back and that it was okay to cry. It was okay to sob. I couldn't simply comprehend that my hero, the man that I loved with my life, would never hold me again, would never comb my hair for me again, would never read me books that I thought were silly again, would never hold my hand and dance with me to the Decemberists, or make me my favorite meal on my low days. This hit me with such immense force, I lost control. I stopped sleeping, I skipped school, I fell in with the wrong crowd, I ceased to eat. My hip bones jutted through my jeans, my collar bones were so prominent. I would do anything; anything, but admit that I needed help.
I refused to be that poor girl who's so sick because of her father's death. I wouldn't put that on him, he deserved so much more. He deserved so much more than the monster that I'd become. I wasn't sick because of him, I was sick because of me. If I ate a full meal, I'd be so furious with myself that I'd find myself crying on the bathroom floor, after I'd violently slammed a toothbrush into the back of my throat. I'd sob, and I'd run my fingers through my thin, broken hair, and tug at the loose skin around my fingers. I'd scrape my torn fingernails against the skin of my hips until I drew blood. I was sick. I needed help.
Part Two
When I turned 15, something turned in me. What I was doing was wrong to my mother, to my father, and especially to myself. I was treating my body like it was something vile rather than something youthful, innocent, beautiful. My disrespect for something so precious was outrageous. It took admiral courage to finally confront my mother.
