am wayyyy past where you think I am; I am in deep, deep trouble. A fucking curfew ? But truth be told, it was good that she was trying to discipline me. I needed that. The reason it didn’t work is because of the inconsistency. I had done what I wanted for years and then suddenly there were rules that night.
My mom went outside in her nightgown and glasses, and came back with a few trash bags so that we could find my pills. When I opened one of the bags, I became enraged. My trinkets that were ceramic or glass were broken into pieces because they had been shoved in with shoes, books, and anything that was in sight. It was as if my existence was just thrown away, as if I didn’t matter. It was as if I was dead and my things were not going to be opened again. I fished out my birth control pills and popped one, in tears. At least I wouldn’t be pregnant during all of this misery. I wanted to change out of my clothes and into pajamas, but I didn‘t know where to find pajamas. I sat around crying in my bare room for a few hours. I then became so livid over my belongings being broken that I lost it. I went to the kitchen, puffy-eyed, and examined the knives. I thought, Oh my gosh…I can’t control myself. I am going to kill my own mother.
It hurts to write that, but it is what I felt. I was going to take a knife and stab her; that is how mad I was. I found myself crying again because I was scaring myself. I couldn’t control my anger and I couldn’t control my hand. I picked up the knife and stared at it. Then I put it back down. I went into my mom’s room- I didn’t know why I was going in. I don’t know what I wanted or how it could have helped me. I looked at her sleeping on my dad’s old side of the bed. There was no one on her side. His side was closest to the bedroom door and the bathroom. I saw the old headboard in the dark, with its big mirror and the stained glass cupboards on either side. She loved stained glass. There was a tissue box above her head and an alarm clock and other necessities that would grow as she got older into a jumble of earplugs, pills, lotions, and pens.
I looked at the lump sleeping in the bed. The lump that single-handedly shattered any comfort I had left in the world. I became full of rage, enough to make me snarl, snarl like a fucking panther. A feeling shot through my body- it was a feeling of pure wrath. I punched her as hard as I could, in the general vicinity of her face. She jumped up out of her dead sleep and I remember seeing the whites of her eyes in the dark. She looked like a scared animal. I actually felt remorse at that moment and wished I hadn’t done it. But at the exact same time I wanted to kill her. I beat her with my fist as hard as I could and she tried to hold up the blanket, as if that would be a shield to stop me. She was screaming my name, begging me to stop.
All of the screaming woke my younger sister, Becky. She quietly went outside, where the rest of the garbage bags were hidden. She took out the things she knew I liked most and lined them all up in my room. My white stuffed cat, Nicky; my big fat Warner Brothers book, my pictures of Rita Hayworth. She pulled out some other things she knew I loved and quietly put them out in the midst of my hysteria and screaming. I always loved my sister for that. She knew what to do. It did calm me down.
Unfortunately, I never retrieved a large portion of my belongings. My mother swears to this day that she really only meant to teach me a lesson so she moved everything out and off to the side of the house. Goodwill thought it was part of a donation and took it all. I was kind of confused as to how Goodwill could make house calls so late at night, because I left at like seven p.m. to go out, but hey, what do I know. Regardless of that, regardless of anything my mother ever did or didn’t do, I was deeply, deeply wrong for striking her. I don’t care if she beat me to a pulp or abused me herself.
My mom went outside in her nightgown and glasses, and came back with a few trash bags so that we could find my pills. When I opened one of the bags, I became enraged. My trinkets that were ceramic or glass were broken into pieces because they had been shoved in with shoes, books, and anything that was in sight. It was as if my existence was just thrown away, as if I didn’t matter. It was as if I was dead and my things were not going to be opened again. I fished out my birth control pills and popped one, in tears. At least I wouldn’t be pregnant during all of this misery. I wanted to change out of my clothes and into pajamas, but I didn‘t know where to find pajamas. I sat around crying in my bare room for a few hours. I then became so livid over my belongings being broken that I lost it. I went to the kitchen, puffy-eyed, and examined the knives. I thought, Oh my gosh…I can’t control myself. I am going to kill my own mother.
It hurts to write that, but it is what I felt. I was going to take a knife and stab her; that is how mad I was. I found myself crying again because I was scaring myself. I couldn’t control my anger and I couldn’t control my hand. I picked up the knife and stared at it. Then I put it back down. I went into my mom’s room- I didn’t know why I was going in. I don’t know what I wanted or how it could have helped me. I looked at her sleeping on my dad’s old side of the bed. There was no one on her side. His side was closest to the bedroom door and the bathroom. I saw the old headboard in the dark, with its big mirror and the stained glass cupboards on either side. She loved stained glass. There was a tissue box above her head and an alarm clock and other necessities that would grow as she got older into a jumble of earplugs, pills, lotions, and pens.
I looked at the lump sleeping in the bed. The lump that single-handedly shattered any comfort I had left in the world. I became full of rage, enough to make me snarl, snarl like a fucking panther. A feeling shot through my body- it was a feeling of pure wrath. I punched her as hard as I could, in the general vicinity of her face. She jumped up out of her dead sleep and I remember seeing the whites of her eyes in the dark. She looked like a scared animal. I actually felt remorse at that moment and wished I hadn’t done it. But at the exact same time I wanted to kill her. I beat her with my fist as hard as I could and she tried to hold up the blanket, as if that would be a shield to stop me. She was screaming my name, begging me to stop.
All of the screaming woke my younger sister, Becky. She quietly went outside, where the rest of the garbage bags were hidden. She took out the things she knew I liked most and lined them all up in my room. My white stuffed cat, Nicky; my big fat Warner Brothers book, my pictures of Rita Hayworth. She pulled out some other things she knew I loved and quietly put them out in the midst of my hysteria and screaming. I always loved my sister for that. She knew what to do. It did calm me down.
Unfortunately, I never retrieved a large portion of my belongings. My mother swears to this day that she really only meant to teach me a lesson so she moved everything out and off to the side of the house. Goodwill thought it was part of a donation and took it all. I was kind of confused as to how Goodwill could make house calls so late at night, because I left at like seven p.m. to go out, but hey, what do I know. Regardless of that, regardless of anything my mother ever did or didn’t do, I was deeply, deeply wrong for striking her. I don’t care if she beat me to a pulp or abused me herself.
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