My mom was addicted to methamphetamine since before I was born; I'm not sure that she used it during my young childhood, but I know that she used it once when she was pregnant with me. Prior to that she was heavily involved in it, as well as my father. She went to rehab when I was around six, and was finally back for good sometime around when I was seven or eight. She cleaned up well and things went on, but some time inbetween that day and my 13th birthday she started drinking again, which led her right back to uppers in a few short years.
I love my mom, and I'm not trashing her- lord knows I've had enough problems with drugs, and I have no delusions of any of my problems being her fault. I'm setting the stage, rather; as I've already mentioned, I left before turning twenty, and she spiraled much deeper into drugs and depression after; eventually she was a homeless meth cook. In 2009 I found out that she was going to prison; my grandmother informed me and told me it would be 20 years. I'll never forget how I felt when I read that text, I was in the middle of a Walgreens as a merchandiser and I just stopped moving and stood there a bit. My mom was going to a place where she could be raped, murdered, tortured, or beaten. I could not help her, I wouldn't get to see her except as a visitation. And it was my fault.
These thoughts plagued me; I had already been consumed with guilt over the depression and homelessness which gripped my mom after I left home, and now it seemed it had compounded. I was filled with so much fear, and self hate, and sadness, that sometimes I'm surprised I didn't explode. I still feel them sometimes.
My mom was staying in Louisiana and I was working in far east Tx near the Tx-La border. I worked 4 days a week and then traveled to be with my mother; I wish I could say that all of the time we spent together was perfect, and while we certainly had a very strong relationship, there were still problems with other members of the family. I don't know that I've ever stopped resenting said members, how fucking dare they make this about them when my mother, the only parent I fucking had, was going to be gone soon. Maybe some people think I'm being overly dramatic. Fuck them. The woman who took care of me, who I abandoned, was going to the closest living thing to hell and it was my fault; I left, gave her the depression, and did all of this to her. My mom's assured me countless times (along with everyone else I've told) that it was her fault and hers alone, and wouldn't you know that I just have never been able to believe that.
The funny joke here is that right before she went in, we all found out she would only serve a few years, and it would be in a camp (club fed). Great news. "Great! You can stop feeling bad Olivia, everything's gonna be okay, right?".
No.
For a year I played a record in my head, so of course it still echos. I think in another world I'd be mad about it; it's like this great cosmic practical joke. A year of thinking you're the cause of what will soon be the most horrible event ever, and ruminating on how you've been the cause of every bad thing that's already happened; these things, unfortunately, left a shadow that wouldn't leave so easily, even if their original source was debunked.
God damn you fate.
She served her time, it was safe, and slowly I returned to an equilibrium. She got out, we continued our new bonding, I relapsed and gave her a whole new headache.
Eventually my mom was picked up on a DUI and had to finish off the rest of her term, which was thankfully only a year. She's out now, and I try to talk with her as much as I can. Our relationship is much better, partly because all of the guilt I still hold; this whole ordeal scarred me in ways that even I don't fully understand, I think.
Sometimes I'm super pessimistic, sometimes I get so afraid of hurting someone I'll do anything for them. Sometimes I feel like crying for fear of abandonment. It probably sounds stupid to everyone, but I think it's all just a side effect of the grief
peace
