Mother’s Day

On Mother’s day I am forced to think of my mom. For that, I will never forgive Hallmark. I can not think of a better day to feel sorry for myself. Yet, it seems that this same day brings out a refusal in most people to distribute sympathy. Sadly, I am not among those subject to the latter.

Mom and I got along splendidly. I did her hair and she did mine. I cried on her shoulder and she listened well. I was her daughter and she was my mother. We were very average in most respects. What’s important, though, is how much I loved her. I loved her more than I can say. I loved her more than she ever knew. I loved my mom.

I got the abortion when I was sixteen. I couldn’t tell my mom, nor did I want to. I was drugged at a party and wound up pregnant. I took a test with a friend. I went to a community clinic. I didn’t see much of a choice. Although I sometimes wonder if I should have, but that doesn’t matter anymore. What does matter is that I got the abortion, and I did not tell my mom.

I never did drugs until after I had the abortion, of this I promise. I only began them to forget. I started on weed and soon I was gone. I moved on quickly. One high, it seemed, led to the next. I simply kept outgrowing the new drug. I couldn’t help it. I kept thinking about my mom and my baby. I kept wondering. So, in order to put a stop to such nonsense, I blurred my life away. And it worked for a while.

When I ODed my mom found out about the drugs. I should have known; it was simply a matter of time. She had been suspicious anyway. She would always ask where I was going and why I would always look so down. She knew, but she was too nice to admit it. I just wished she would hate me; it would’ve been so much easier if she just hated me. But, no, she kept on loving me as much as she could. So, that night, she came to the hospital to pick me up. She promised me then that she would get me help. She promised that she’d never stop loving me.

This is the note I left:

I’m gone. Don’t try and find me. I don’t care about you and I don’t care about me. Just forget about me and fuck off.

The only reason I went back home was because I had run out of money. Six months had passed since I left. I hadn’t sent any word at all. At this point, my appearance left something to be desired. My grizzled features did not represent those of a teenage girl. My eyes were dark and lined with black and blue. My cheeks were webbed with veins, and my hair was scarce and clumped with grease and sweat. A long scar defaced my forehead, and recently applied stitches to my chin were growing with infection by the day. I showed up to the door as an addict, not my mother’s daughter.

She opened the door and fell to her knees in tears. I had hoped for anger or regret. But she had been smiling. She had been happy to see me. I couldn’t believe it. All I had wanted was for her to have hated me to the degree that I did. So I told her I had an abortion.

I didn’t stick around to see her reaction. I wasn’t sure where I would end up but I knew it would somehow work out. I met some guy on the subway, he said he had a place so I went with him. He let me stay in exchange for sex; I was happy to oblige. I hated my body. He must’ve liked it though. So that was my home for a long, long time.

The guy came in one day with a newspaper. He asked me if I had had a relative named Charlotte. I shook my head yes, and said that Charlotte was the name that belonged to my mother. He looked down for a moment and then cocked his head back up without emotion. When he spoke, his voice was distinctly unfeeling. “Not anymore.”

I don’t like Mother’s Day. It isn’t a fair reminder. It’s a day of consumption. People seem to forget what a day can do. People seem to forget that some people don’t have mothers anymore. People seem to forget how difficult that can be. I hate this day.

A guy