There was a calm in the days afterward. It was melancholia. Remember how I had said I grew up with the internet? The first thing I did that night when we came home from the hospital was call my best friend to get her to post a status on Myspace for me about the death of my mother. That was the most important thing to me at the time. To post a status on Myspace.
When you experience the death of a parent, things don’t ever quite go back to what they were. Things got better for me. My sister used the life insurance money to get me braces and clothes we desperately needed. We ended up moving into a new home in Wilmington with our stepdad. Previously, Destiny had been driving me 30 minutes each way to school every day. We would now be closer to my school now.
It was a nice house, with a bedroom, bathroom, living area, and laundry downstairs. Upstairs was the kitchen, a second living area, two bedrooms, and a bathroom for Destiny and I. It was perfect to give us our own space. It was exciting for Destiny. She hadn’t ever lived in a house of her own before. Things began to fall into place.
I was able to walk to school the following year because we were right down the street. My father’s house was only a mile away, although he wasn’t there. My sister and I grew closer every day. She became my mother, and she was a damn good one. She was only 21 when my mom died. That’s when she took me in as her own.
Living with my sister gave me the kind of consistency I needed. It wasn’t perfect. I didn’t have a soccer mom, but I had stability. There were no more late night karaoke sessions keeping me up until 4 am. There was no more constant drunkenness among my elders. There was a quiet home to go back to every day.
My grades improved, and Destiny encouraged me to join a sport. I did. For the first time in my life I didn’t have back fat. It was miraculous. I finally found a sport where tall girls that can’t run are welcome with open arms—rowing. I loved everything about it. I loved the way the wind felt, I loved the rippling waters, I loved the sense of community. I still felt like an outcast. Something in my mental makeup does not allow me to feel a part of normal communities. Even now, as a practicing artist, sometimes I don’t feel I have the right to call myself “artist”.
At the meets I would look at all the mothers that would bring Chewy Bars and a Box O’ Joe. I would study their behaviors. I didn’t miss my mother. I missed the idea of having a mother. Although my sister had stepped up to the plate, there was still something missing. You can never replace the bond that a daughter and mother have. I had never really had it in the first place. I wondered what it was like.
Generally, people don’t understand mothers that don’t have a maternal instinct. It’s almost blasphemous to mention that your mother wasn’t so, motherly. So I began to search for surrogates. While my sister avoided women at all cost due to her distrust, I sought comfort in them. I grew incredibly close relationships to my friend’s mothers without even realizing it.
The only woman I didn’t bond with was my other mother. My step-mother…
To Be Continued...
