I'm Not My Mother

My childhood died when I was only eight. It ended at the hands of bullies at Birch Lane. It ended with Paul. My parents packed my brothers and I up and took us away from Moore Avenue, hoping to start over, but there would be no starting over. My childhood was left behind.

There was no time to ride bikes for there was nowhere to ride bikes. There was no time to play with the kids, who teased and tormented me, and some would continue to do so until graduation day. There was no time to explore this small, country town especially when some store owners realized that I was left-handed, chasing me out into the street. There was no time to exist except within the confines of my bedroom. There was no time to know or feel love when the men that came into my world twisted and shattered my heart. I was done being a little girl.

When I was in high school, my mother grew ill. She found a fat tick that had dropped off her skin and splattered against the bathroom floor. She was diagnosed with Lyme Disease and had to be hospitalized for, at least a couple of weeks. In that time of her absence, there was no one to cook, clean, or take care of my three younger brothers. That responsibility fell to me.

It wasn't like I was under enough pressure. I was fighting with my older brothers, battling the bullies in school, and failing miserably in several of my subjects. I was also fighting off depression, burying myself in dark poems and short stories. My father and I argued day and night, never seeing eye to eye, and he more or less ordered me to take on my mother's responsibilities. And I did, gaining chest pains as reward, and it would take several years later for a better doctor to diagnose me with Mitral Valve Prolapse.

During this time, my cousin was getting married. There was no way for my mother to attend. Her treatment was still ongoing, and my father refused to go without her. My grandmother pleaded with me to get on a bus with my brothers and head down to Long Island, but I didn't. At this point in time, I knew no independence. I didn't know how to escape, so nobody went. The end result was that my cousin no longer considers us family.

When my mother returned home, her responsibilities remained mine. I cooked, cleaned, and babysat my younger brothers. They grew closer to me than her, and she didn't like that. But she didn't change that either. She remained in her room, sleeping, or watching television, leaving her responsibilities with me, but what about my life? I was finishing high school, and my father dropped hints that maybe pursuing further education wasn't right for me. Maybe I should let Dave make me his house wife, and maybe then he would not have to worry about me. So, I left, escaping to the sanctuary of my grandparents' house in Seaford.

But I returned off and on, and my parent's house became home again in 2004. And once again, I began to cook and clean. My mother permanently retired after my baby brother graduated high school in 2006. She now spends her time watching shopping channels or mindless Reality TV, and I only see her at the dinner hour or when watching television with the family. Otherwise, it's like she's a ghost, and I was once again taking up her mantle. But I am not my mother.

I plan to leave again. I just don't know when. This world is crashing down, and living on your own is not cheap. I need to leave, but I have fallen on my ass before. The next time I go, I will make certain to walk on solid ground, and I know that once on my own, I will have to cook and clean. But who will take up the mantle here?

My father was used to having meals made for him especially at dinner. My younger brothers treat washing dishes and laundry as if it were kryptonite, but only recently have I forced them to accept doing their own laundry. But they won't clean, and my baby brother bitches and moans when forced to. He even complains when I make him walk the poodles, but if I leave, my responsibilities will become his. This was his only preparation, but he was as lazy as they come, spending his unemployed days strapped to the internet and on the social networks. It's time for him to grow up, but he's not my mother. I'm not my mother, but I play her part so very well, which is why I have to leave. I'm losing sight of who I am and becoming her, and that is not my future, that is not who I am. I want more, so much more, but until I leave home one day, what I want may remain out of reach. But I won't remain my mother.