I was fourteen, and the child I was, was overshadowed by the woman I was forced to be. There was no time for enjoying youth as my friends were; no time for first boyfriends or whispered secrets, though not for lack of trying. My first year of high school was defined by half-assed attempts at romance, the sudden and unwelcome presence of a deadbeat father, and, more than anything else, my mother, who was dying.
When I imagined illness I expected a fading, a slow descent into feebleness followed by a quiet end, but that was not what came. Instead, the neaurovascular disease that was taking my mother was ripping her away from me violently, announcing its presence at every opportunity and shaking the walls of my home so hard we wondered if the neighbors could hear.
She'd lose control of her arms. They'd drop things, throw things across the room, paw at her on their own accord. Her legs would give out, too, and she'd fall from time to time. Her words would get jumbled up — "water" would turn to "milk" — or she'd forget them all together, or she'd be unable to understand what you were saying. She forgot chunks of her past, sometimes a person would be wiped away from her memories entirely. Math became impossible. Her days were filled with headaches.
And she hated me.
At first I thought it was just the pain — no one's ever a basket of flowers when they have a headache like the ones she endured — but it became apparent quickly that that wasn't the only cause, because even on her good days, her resentment hid just beneath the surface, sometimes popping up just a little, just enough to make itself known. I wasn't good enough. Taking the blame came easier than breathing; I could come up with a long list of reasons why the person who was supposed to love me most couldn't, and even if I couldn't find one, she was quick to remind me.
My grades sucked. I was too desperate for attention. I was too desperate for love. I was too lazy. I was too energetic. I asked for too much. I didn't do enough chores. I didn't do chores until I was specifically asked. I ate too much. I was home too often. I wasn't home enough. I tried too hard to be cool. I cared too much about my looks. I didn't care about my looks enough. I was dramatic. I was self-absorbed. I wasn't funny. My depression was too big of a deal. I was a liar. I wasn't a good enough friend to my friends. I got in fights with them too much. I was lonely. I gave my best friend too much attention. I was a nuisance, I was a nuisance, I was a nuisance.
Still I idolized her. I clung to her side, always at her beck and call. She was more important than anyone, and I loved her more than anything, and there was nothing I wouldn't do for her. After all, she still showed me kindness a lot of the time, and besides, it wasn't her fault she couldn't love me.
