This is a paper I typed up for my writing class. It is an autobiography... and I just think that no one will be interested in it. *sigh* What do you think? Boring?
This whole mess started on one of those days in January where all you really want to do
is bum around your house due to the dreary weather. My brother and I were in the computer
room roaming the internet, with nothing else to do. The computer room was a small and
cluttered room at the far end of the hallway. It also double as my mom’s offices, therefore it had
two computers, enough to satisfy a bored teenager and a copy-cat preteen.
As we sat with our chins in our hands. trying to think of something to do, my mother
called to us from the living room, at the other end of the hall, saying she wanted to talk to us
about something important. My heart felt like it did a backflip and bounced off of my lung. I
gasped, and my brother and I exchanged glances. It was going to be D-Day all over again, we
could tell.
We padded down the hallway in our dirtying white socks and plopped ourselves on
either side of my dad, who was sitting cross-legged on the couch. I looked from my mom to my
dad, then back to my mom. They were both sort of looking at each other, and I knew that
instant that this was serious.
“Well, you dad and I have been talking. A lot.” She paused.
“Mom, keep talking. Just go.” I almost yelled, angrily.
“Dad and I have been fighting more too. So I think maybe it’s best if I move out for a
while.”
I blinked. I blinked again. “What?”
“I’m getting an apartment. I think it’s best if I move out for a while.” she replied,
practically emotionless.
As my younger brother began to cry, so did I. It was almost unreal; after experiencing
my best friends parents getting divorced, I had been constantly asking my parents if they would
ever even think of getting divorced. The divorce of my friend’s parents had scarred me for life
the night she called me sobbing.
I continued to cry as my mother just sat there. My father tried to remain strong, but
seeing his only two kids in tears at their family disaster, he too began to cry. I had never seen
my father cry before in my life, and I knew that this was hard on him.
The days passed very slowly after that. Most of my days were filled with confusion and
wondering, as well as my brother. Custody decisions fluttered through my mind constantly, and
I was glad neither of my parents were getting into legal matters as far as custody went.
The day for my mother to move in came, and she asked me to stay home from school
and help her move. I was torn. My mother was practically leaving my life, and she wanted me to
help her with it? I was a wreck. I didn’t end up deciding until the day before.
All day, we lugged couches, beds, mattresses and desks into my mom’s apartment. She
felt at home right away, while I on the other hand was trapped in this unfamiliar home with my
crazy mom.
The first night there was a disaster also. I felt terribly out of place, I missed my father
and I couldn’t sleep. Tears were often the lullaby that lulled me to sleep many of nights I was
there. I still couldn’t imagine this had happened to me. My once semi-normal, peaceful life was
now in a ditch somewhere, stranded and never to be brought back to life.
Months passed and it slowly became easier to stay in the unfamiliar home. We adapted
by getting a pet bird, which my mother had always wanted. He whistled and talked to us, and
was a pretty good companion. Later on, two cats would join the clan, only to be heartlessly
surrendered to the humane society when my mother refused to pay the $50 fee for having pets
in the apartment. She never once considered our feelings on the matter, but instead did what she
felt was right and “best” for us.
My mother was becoming increasingly difficult to live with. Considering her office was
home-based, she had no reason to leave the house. She rarely left that place, only to get
groceries or cigarettes. More often than not, my father would be called to bring her something
she needed.
My mom had never been, for lack of better words, a mother. She stayed at home all
day. She was somewhat of a modern day hermit. If I think back to my first day of kindergarten,
I remember her walking with me to school, me holding her hand and her walking me to my
room. She was nearing the end of her pregnancy at that time, and in early October my brother
was born, and she stopped walking me to school. Everything sort of disapated from there.
I remember my freshman year in highschool, my first Homecoming marching band
performance ever. She didn’t even bat an eye as a tear rolled down my cheek as we left without
her. To this day, I still think it is possible that she has some sort of crazy chemical imbalance in
her brain that prevents her from feeling empathy or regret. Even my brother, her baby, was
never sure what to say when other peers would ask him why his mom wasn’t there. There’s no
easy way to explain to other first graders that your mom just doesn’t care. From then on, she
never showed up to any of our concerts. Soon enough, I learned to expect the least from her
and I wouldn’t be disappointed.
Around that time, she started having breakdowns. She had been diagnosed with
depression a few years earlier, and sometimes I think that’s what triggered her to leave us.
These breakdowns would occur at random three to four month intervals, and would last for a
week. She would completely give up all hope on life and cry in her home for days on end. She
would cry about being a bad parent and being sorry for all the hell she’s put us through. She’d
cry over an ex-boyfriend or over my father. It never seemed to end, and everytime, we’d get
pulled into it, and end up having to drag her back out of the hole.
About a year after my mom moved out, they began talking about divorce. Divorce. It
would be final. At this point I was sure they’d never get back together again, and I was realizing
my dad deserved much better than what he was being treated by my mom. I, too, was sick of
dealing with my mothers endless, “I’m sorry,” speeches and breakdowns, and I was sick of
how she treated us. We did nothing at her house. She sat around all day and did nothing; didn’t
visit family, friends, or go anywhere. She was too self-centered and careless to realize me and
my brother’s growing restlessness to get out of her home and do things.
About halfway through the divorce, my dad met a woman. She was everything that my
mother wasn’t; caring, respectful, giving and loving. My dad was very happy being with her,
because when he was with my mom, he waited on her hand and foot, and did everything she
needed. Now, with Angie, his world was normal. They treated each other with fairness and
equality. Angie liked everything my father did, and my father was overjoyed.
My mother slowly began falling into bad habits. She would go out with this man named
John and not be home all night, but would always seem to come home crying. This man was
breaking her heart, or so it seemed, but she kept going back. I don’t know why or how, but
she always went back to him. It was an endless cycle of heartache and pain for everyone
involved. I felt bad for her that she kept getting hurt by him, but at the same time I couldn’t help
but want to slap some sense into her for going back as many times as she did.
Another bad habit she fell into was lying. She lied about John, the man she would see.
She would lie about where she was, or what she was doing. Everything went back to John. My
father was overwhelmed with frustration with her constant lying. I remember one instance she
told me she would be home at 7 in the evening. When midnight rolled around, I was in tears.
Anger had completely consumed me; she had LIED about when she would be home, she didn’t
answer our phone calls, nor call us back. And where was she the whole time? With John. She
didn’t tell anyone that until we badgered her enough to make her tell the truth.
Over the span of two or so years, the emotions dealing with my mom have varied. As of
today, her and I are still on harsh terms, due to her near constant lying to us kids. Although I try
not to, I worry about her every single day of my life. I worry about her and John. I worry about
her happiness and am always trying to make her happy. I hope to God that she takes her
medication. We worry about her nonstop, but we never get the worry in return.
Most days I feel like I’m living without a mom. She’s never been there, nor has she
ever. It’s just my job right now to move on and live a happy life with my dad and Angie, who
truly make me happy. Through screams, tantrums, breakdowns and fights, my mother and I
have grown apart; due to my lack of wanting to try to make things better with her anymore and
her lack of understanding and motherhood.
