Monday, June 22, 2015

i don't know how to give her the help she needs

We sat on her king size bed in the blue room at the back of the house. Or at least, thats how I remembered it. It's been over 10 years now and all the memories have blurred together. I used to lie on that bed in all my vulnerable times. I can only remember the little things from that room. When I was about 5 years old, she woke me up in the middle of the night to open my presents Christmas morning. My face lit up to all the gifts that Santa had given me. I unwrapped my first gift and it was a Rugrats movie that I remember watching over and over again after that night. I opened the next and it was a Teddy Graham's Play-Doh set that I would end up eating because I didn't know any better. And then she told me to go back to sleep before opening my biggest present. I ran to her room to prepare for sleep. I bumped into the closet door and it flew open. Wrapping paper fell out. I must have been smarter for my age (or not?) because I remember immediately realizing that the wrapping paper that had fallen out of her closet was the same wrapping paper that Santa had just used. She walked in on me sobbing and holding the wrapping paper. I knew she knew that I knew. I looked up at her and screamed, "WHY DO YOU HAVE THE SAME WRAPPING PAPER AS SANTA?!" Of course, in this moment of any parents' life, you have to make a decision whether to tell your child the truth or lie to them. She would never lie to me. But sometimes I wish she did because I sat in her bed crying all of Christmas morning not giving a care in the world about my present that I still had to open. But she held me the whole time, humming songs in my ear that I wish I remembered.


He and I are parasites. We take and take, but never give back. We got her a new sweater. Is that enough? We got her the lipstick she's been wanting. Is that enough? We got her a dozen red roses. Is that enough?
No, it's not. It'll never be enough.
But how do you repay the woman who has given you the world?
The stress consumes her. It eats her alive. I hate it when she's angry. She's not careful with things. She breaks a mug a friend gave me and yells at me for crying. "Don't you dare cry!" She doesn't mean it, she's just stressed.
Then she gets frustrated when I cry harder. She starts throwing things everywhere and breaking more things. "The house is a mess, the house is a mess! You guys should just make more of a mess everyday like this!" The house isn't a mess. She doesn't mean it, she's just stressed.
She goes upstairs and watches TV as he and I clean the house. She comes down to an almost spotless house and makes a mess again, throwing things everywhere. "Make more messes, make more messes. Do this everyday!" She doesnt mean it, shes just stressed.
And then she runs upstairs and paces back and forth in the hallway. "I might as well die. Someone kill me. Someone kill me now!" She doesn't mean it, she's just stressed.
But now she sits on my queen sized bed in my lilac room at the front of the house, sobbing as I hold her tight and hum songs in her ear that she'll never remember. But I cannot help her.
I owe her the world.
But I can give her nothing.

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