Goddamn Expensive Hairspray!

The bathroom smelled of concentrated urine and feces. The floor was sticky beneath my feet. I cleaned the bathroom more for dad than me. More for me than mom. Hell, it was her mess. Why should I have to clean up her mess? And the damn dogs always in there, licking the floor, the toilet or dragging soiled underwear from the laundry hamper. God, what a mess! Disease or choice? The debate about alcoholism, any addiction, as old as any debate. Didn't matter. The result was the same. Mom was dying. And if her alcoholism made me miserable, she must been been living in hell itself.

The second time I was in the puzzle house aka nut hut my psychiatrist decided it would be a good idea to meet my family. My family. Ha! What on God's green earth made this man think that my mom was about to drive two hours for a family session? My mother had never attended a single church program, school play, graduation or any other event in my life. Including when I crossed over from being a Brownie into a Girl Scout. A strictly mother daughter event. My dad attended in her stead.

It was dad who pulled my long hair back into a ponytail every morning. Dad checked my homework, made sure I got to where I was supposed to be, he taught me how to read and how to sew. Dad marched us to confession every Saturday evening before mass on Sunday morning. Not that he or mom ever attended mass. I knew better than to even ask mom to join us for a family session. I would ask dad and hope my mom would tag along. Hope. That's an odd word to use in the same sentence with the words, my mom.

Dad was a proud man. He had right to be by most standards. I had grown up in a nice house with two cars in the driveway, food to eat, we had clothes on our backs and a small emergency fund in the bank. He did not take well to the implication that something was amiss in his family.

There are two things I remember from that family session. After I introduced dad to Dr. Miller and we were seated dad announced, "Lets get something straight from the beginning. I will not tolerate, Sue bashing." Just a little defensive. Why would I bash mom? Let me count the whys. Following our family session I walked dad to the elevator. "So dad," I asked, "What did you think of Dr. Miller?" "I wasn't impressed. He reminded me of someone who had to run to his books to search for the significance of my every word." There you had it. Not only was every man I ever dated in his eyes a loser, so was my doctor.

I have to shift my weight to keep my ribs from pushing against my bloated liver. My bloated liver. Very uncomfortable. How in the name of God had this happened to me? I had promised myself and no one else in particular I would not become my mom. May be in a small way I succeeded. I didn't drink. I learned early on that I was a sloppy, boo-hooing, snot slinging, suicidal, slut. I mean drunk. I got pregnant while I was still a teen being "comforted" by a man during one of those boo-hooing rampages. Prescription pills were my thing. Smaller bottle to manage and no odor on my breath. Didn't matter. The result was the same.

Mom's gone now. Dad, my brother and sisters had made sure she had a nice funeral. Everyone who didn't know her was there. They knew bar stool Sue. Jovial Sue. Not mom. Me jealous? Goddamn right I was jealous. Everyone had a better relationship with my mom than I did.

How is it that my siblings weep so for her? Denial? Of course though they had all moved a thousand plus miles away from home. Denial? Maybe that was me. I was the only one who stayed, who knew mom. The only one who begged to be loved. The woman they had all welcomed into their homes for the past thirty years was, vacation mom. And they had the photos to prove it. Mom at the cheese factory, mom sampling chocolates, mom at the winery, mom at their favorite restaurant. I wish I had known and had photos of vacation mom.

Everyone knows what you drink away from home doesn't count. It's alright to get shit faced every night while on vacation. Other wise where would the fun be? What would the point of being on vacation be if you couldn't get shit faced? Not that mom needed an excuse at home or away.

Where, God, had I fallen apart? Twenty years ago I had been in a lucrative career as an RN. I was well respected by most of the medical community in this God forsaken town. A year ago having lost everything very slowly, very painfully I had to move back in the house with mom and dad. Mom resented me for moving back in. God, how she resented me. Was I a reflection of her?

Mom bashed and belittled me every opportunity she had. "Stay out of my goddamn expensive hairspray. If you want hairspray I will buy you some of the cheap stuff, " mom yelled in her cagey voice. Clearly, for the first time in my life I could see I was not good enough for mom. I wasn't even worthy of her, "expensive hairspray." What chance did I ever have on being a whole person if I wasn't even good enough for my own mom?

Why had I not wept at her funeral? Why would I weep? God had removed the thorn from my heart. Why no tears of relief than? Perhaps because now that mom was gone I would never have her love. Mom, dead or alive, I couldn't win.

Had mom ever known that all I ever wanted was her love? Her affection? Every trophy, every victory, every accomplishment for mom. None of it mattered. None of it was good enough. Did mom withhold her love to be cruel? Fifty years of my life were gone. Wasted.

I am tired and broken. I am weighted down, buried in pain. Fifty years of tears gone. I see no future. What now, God? What now? God, who will ever love me?

"Come to me, all of you who are tired of carrying your heavy loads and I will give you rest. Take my yoke and put it on you and learn from me, because I am gentle and humble in spirit; and you will find rest. The yoke I will give you is easy and the load I will put on you is light." Matthew 11:28-30

K. A. Shaw