Why I Wrote Wise by Nature, cont'd

I never thought I’d be in a position where I missed being seven years old and cleaning up shards of broken wine glasses while finishing pasta for my father and I to eat for dinner, but when I was fifteen, I found myself reminiscing for some of the worst periods of my life. It’s funny, how nostalgia will cloak traumatic memories and make them seem better than they were.

I remember being five years old and saying to my dad “Mommy switches like a light switch at night when she has her juice. Do I get mean when I drink apple juice?” My dad was speechless, and said that I was a sweet girl and would never be mean. I asked why my mom would be, because she said she loved me more than anything. He went silent.

I remember every day that I was locked in my room for almost eighteen hours without meals, light, water, a bathroom, or any way to communicate. I remember the rage I felt, how upset I was because I knew I deserved the things I was being deprived of. I remember the fear, as to whether I would ever be let out. I remember the betrayal, that the person who was supposed to love me more than anything would pick and choose when this love would be given. 

I remember every word said to me when I was a small child, and could quote some of the most vile sentences you could say to a nine year old. How it wasn’t shocking I had no friends because I was a horrible person, how I was ugly because of my curly hair and big nose. How “fat” was the worst thing I could be, so I was called it constantly. It was ingrained into my psyche by 10 that I’d never find the friends I wanted because I was inherently “bad”. I remember how many times I was called a burden and unwanted. Actually, that’s a lie. I stopped counting at 12 when I hit 200. I remember how I was called a bitch at 8 and my mother wondered how she could raise someone as needy as I am. I was taught then that I could never have needs because then people wouldn’t want me around. Therapy helped me unlearn many of the words, but I hear my mother’s voice in the mirror on my worst days.

I remember when my mom said that I changed at twelve for the worse. It was the first time that I stood up to my mom. I let her tear apart any ounce of self esteem I had, and followed it with “This is not what love is supposed to look like.” and asked her if she’d want me to marry someone who talks to me the way she talks to me. She said I deserved to. We argued about how I said “I love you” to her every day for a year, until I snapped. As a fourteen-year-old freshman in high school, I told her I’d never say those words again because I waited a calendar year for her to say them back. She disappeared from my life for almost two years after, with no explanation. It was at that moment where I realized that the only way for me to have the life I deserve is without my mother.

I regret to say that I still find that statement to be true. 

I went through the motions of adolescence without my mom, and I’d cite it as one of the most painful things I’ve experienced. I went through my first breakup without my mom there to hold my hand. I bought my prom dresses without anyone to try them on with. I gave seminars in school and won awards with one less parent to come home to than everyone else. Only one person walked me out to each of my senior games. I skipped mother-daughter outings. I’d cry in the bathroom when I saw moms with their daughters at the mall or at a grocery store. My friend’s parents would ask about my mom, and I’d divert all of the attention to my angel of a father, who then ended up needing me to take care of him. I’d make home cooked meals for the two of us and curse at the sky and whoever invented alcohol for taking away the person who should’ve supported me through these trials and tribulations instead of equating me to a fifteen-year-old housewife.

Nearing the end of my sophomore year of high school, my dad picked me up, as he did every day. For the first time, instead of leading with “How was your day?” as a way to gauge how his terminal illness was progressing, I immediately talked about my own day. On April 13th, 2022, I did have an abnormally good day. I’d recently released an article discussing my mom’s alcoholism, preluding Wise by Nature, and got 100 on a quiz ninth period, and I struggled quite a bit in AP World History. My dad interrupted me with tears in his eyes, and said “Mom’s in the hospital.” Immediately, I assumed it was my Grandma, my dad’s mom. We went back and forth until it hit me that my mom was in the hospital. My dad asked if I wanted to go and say my goodbyes, or whatever would help me cope. I told him that I’d said all I had to say when I was fourteen and told her that I couldn’t keep loving someone who didn’t love me back, and she was radio silent while I cried and begged for a hug from my mom. 

Although I’d lost hope in her from a very young age, a child-like glimpse of it came back when I found out that my mom was sober for a month- the first time this had occurred since I was seven years old. Typical with our relationship, I was quickly disappointed in how things always seemed to revert back to their worst state. 

The most impactful lesson that I learned from my mother is that some people are put in your life to teach you what not to do.

Thank you for reading

-your sober blog author