Sweetlifeconfidential’s Weblog

I Don’t Know Why

November 18, 2011 at 1:30 am (Uncategorized)

My mother married my father when she was 30. She scooped up some prominent D.C. attorney and swore from then on out, she’d be the perfect wife. 2 years later and 36 hours of pain, I made a lazy entrance into this world. 21 months later came my sister. It was the 2 of us at first. Thick as thieves.

My father was a big-shot for one of the largest companies in the world. Life was plush for me. We saw my father on weekends mainly. He was always too busy traveling the world, putting in late hours at the office. He moved us 4 times when we were kids. Uprooting our happiness for money.

My mother slaved to be the perfect wife. She stayed trim and beautiful . Always wearing the latest fashions. She molded us into the perfect daughters. Kind, considerate, perfect grades in school. Our family was cookie cutter perfection from the pages of Southern Living.

I was small, maybe about 7, when I heard my mother weeping from her boudoir. She slammed the door in my face. I pressed my ear, hard against the door. Listening. My father cheated on her. Found someone younger, different, who knows. My mother stayed. “He’ll be back she said.” And then my brother came along.

Happiness disguised in a baby; a false excuse for perfection. Babies don’t make things better and it’s a shame to people who have them for that reason. Either way, I was 8-years old, living in White Picket Fence, IL. Me, my sister, and my baby brother. At that point, my mother became too consumed in saving her marriage, she forgot about us. Forgot about my brother. I woke up at 5am every day and got ready for school. Fed my brother at 6, put him in his day crib, and caught the bus by 7am.

My mother was the modern day Betty Draper. Too obsessed with being the perfect wife, having the perfect children, that she never really let us get to know her, to know our father. I wish I could say my childhood memories were full of joy, that life was perfect. It wasn’t. Country clubs and Mercedes don’t mean that life is wonderful. They don’t mean anything.

When it was time for me to go to college, I couldn’t bear leaving my siblings. Leaving them in a war zone that wasn’t a home. You see, my mother gave up her life for us, for marriage. She could never divorce my father and start a life of her own because she had been out of work for so long. So used to a life of privilege she could never have her own.

I won’t bore you with the details of how I got to college from there.

I did a brief stint at an all girls Catholic college. My mother’s choice, of course. After my 3^rd semester, my sister was diagnosed with a rare brain disease. A rare form of Hydrocephalus to be exact. Countless brain surgeries later, I dropped out. I moved to Arizona to help my sister be studied at the Barrow Institute. After 6 weeks, the doctors came out empty handed. So, we left.

I intended to go back to school, but then my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer.

That moment, that sharp sting of shock will fill you forever.

I dropped out of college for good. I was there for her side for every surgery, for every heartbreak. Between my sister’s 9 brain surgeries and my mother’s 15 surgeries, I had mastered the art of sleeping on hospital room chairs.

My father really made no presence in any of this. Was too caught up worrying about his own life, I suppose.

I tried to be there for my baby brother, I tried. God. I tried. He attempted suicide twice in that time. Kids do that these days. He’s 17 and still has never given me answers. He’s 17, but he’s so deeply damaged inside, I cant save him, the anti-psychotics can’t save him, nor the anti-depressants, anti-anxities, anti-feeling anything in this worlds.

I started stripping. To make a life for myself. To provide an income to someone who was actually unable to put in 42 hours a week. I had to run a dysfunctional circus. There was no time for education or careers for me.

I don’t talk to any friends from then. From my white collar childhood. They look down on me. Whisper, “Oh, that poor girl, that poor family” in between breathes at their country club socials. We don’t want your sympathy. We don’t want your help. We did this on our own. To be honest, none of the girls I ever went to school with would have survived this bullshit. Im still here. Standing. I may not be perfect. But God I fucking tried.

My mother never really let us know what was going on with her cancer. Just that she was sick. That breast cancer showed up and she’d kick its ass.

If only that were true.

My mother went through mastectomies, breast reconstructions, thyroid surgeries, surgeries upon surgeries, treatments, prayer, I just cant remember it all. Its been 5 years. 5 horrible years of pain.

It seemed to have dropped off for a while. Last Christmas, she announced her cancer was back. I knew that it wasn’t good.

I tried to just help. I tried. There’s no helping. Cancer isn’t a fucking battle. She didn’t choose this. She didn’t want to fight this. It happens and there is no way out.

I’m sick of your fucking pink ribbons, your sympathy, your prayers. GO FUCK YOURSELVES!

Your false sympathy and 5k marathons aren’t here now. They aren’t helping us. They don’t make my mother feel better. Or give us hope. They make us depressed. They make me cry. They make me hate you. If I ever had the chance, I’d ram my brass knuckle ridden fist up Susan G. Komen’s pink ass.

My father left last month. Decided it was too much disgusting ugly, too much hard for his life.

It makes me sad that my mother is spending her last few months alone. She grabbed my arm in the hospice the other day, she tugged on it and said, “I got married and I’m dying alone.”

I guess. That’s the hardest part. I try not to stop to think. The thinking parts are the times I drink too much. Consume too many drugs.

So, here we are. My mother weighs 70lbs. I left my job to help her. She refuses it most of the time. Wants to be alone while she dies. I go 4 days a week to help. Most of the time I drink. Do drugs. Get lost in the city.

My brother and sister depend on me now.  To be strong. For them. I’m the matriarch now. I’m in charge. That fucking scares me.

I spent all night drinking vodka out of the bottle and blowing lines of cocaine with my sister.

I have nothing more to say.

I’m too numb to feel.

Something good will happen tomorrow.

I’ve been saying it for 5 years now.

I keep saying it.

I don’t know why.