When I lived with my Nanna and Pawpaw, my life became almost “normal,” whatever that means. I was a gifted student and was in band, theatre, and debate. I also participated in Student Council and Beta Club while taking AP classes. I attended church regularly with my grandparents. I didn’t smoke, drink, or do anything else of that sort that could get me into any trouble. Of course, there were arguments and the occasional shouting match between my grandparents and myself. My Nanna and I are too much alike, and I was a teenager. I got a job as soon as I was able, and I used my earnings to purchase my Pawpaw’s Chevy S10. Other than the shadows of my recent past that continued to haunt and terrorize me in moments of quiet, I lived a relatively normal, routine life. When my inner turmoil began to overwhelm me, I would try to take control by cutting myself. I made my emotional pain tangible. I never did this where anyone could see, though my Pawpaw caught me once. I don’t know that he ever told my Nanna, but he promised he’d keep my secret if I never did it again. I never did do it where I would be caught again, but I had to let the poison out. I can’t explain it better than that, but I was in so much pain. If I didn’t do something physical to release it, I felt I’d have to end it all. This seemed the more reasonable alternative.
I didn’t really have any communication with my mom for the first couple of years of our separation. We reconnected at some point and exchanged phone calls periodically. We became friends on Facebook after I got an account sometime in 2010. My dad took my brother and me to see her when I was about sixteen, in the late Summer of 2011. We met, I believe, in Tupelo, MS. I can still clearly see her face when we pulled up. I didn’t recognize her at first. While my mother had been a glowing, healthy woman full of life when I was a younger child, this stranger was a gaunt, hollow woman with the shackles of misery clamped to her heels. Her eyes bulged from her face and were darkened underneath by both a lack of sufficient sleep and a poor diet; once shining red locks were now a dull, pale orange and yellow. When our eyes met for the first time in nearly six years, her entire demeanor changed. Her smile revealed teeth that had either rotted or been knocked out by her husband, John. He was in prison at the time, and she was in the midst of trying to divorce him.
I could hardly catch my breath as I fumbled for the door handle before hesitantly climbing out of the backseat and being enveloped in a warm hug. She still smelled the same. After a moment, I felt myself crumble. I was a broken little girl who had missed her mom with her entire being. My brother was less enthusiastic, but I could see his own pain reflected in his tear glistening blue eyes. The ice broken, we entered the hotel at which mom was staying before walking with her to the pool. We caught up on lighter subjects such as school and work. We went for dinner afterwards, and we caught a movie at the local theater. My mom and I watched The Rise of the Planet of the Apes, while my brother watched the latest Transformers movie (again) with my dad. My mom didn’t take her eyes off my face throughout the entire movie, and she held my hand with a grip that told me she was terrified of letting go. So many unspoken words were passed each time our eyes met. I burned with questions I was too afraid to ask. I wanted to freeze time and cherish this reunion. Unfortunately, like all things, the trip came to an end.
We kept contact, and Mom made a trip with her boyfriend, Bobby, the following Easter. I was working at Cheddar’s and wanted to show off my new place of employment, like any excited teenager. Bobby, Mom, my brother, and I ate together and played the latest popular game, Fun Run, together. One night I stayed in the room with my mom and watched Sweet Genius. She was up most of the night. She was ill after years of neglecting her diabetes and abusing various substances. Her boyfriend was a wonderful, sweet man who took care of her. Teary goodbyes were made when she had to leave. Facebook and cellphones kept us in close contact.
In the beginning of the second semester of my senior year, I was faced with a choice. I was to pay a portion of the bills as a “gift” for my eighteenth birthday. I decided I’d rather pay bills elsewhere so I could at least enjoy some liberties. I moved in with a coworker who was a student at USM at the time. I began staying out most nights and drinking heavily. I started smoking again. I made my way through hookups and meaningless sex like my partners meant nothing to me. I don’t know what I was searching for in that particular phase of rebellion. I had proven myself to be a golden child with the grades and work ethic to show for it. My being punished rather than rewarded for my accomplishments felt like a slap to the face. I wanted to prove that I was an adult and could do whatever felt good with no consequences.
Finally, I was brought back to reality when I received a call from my Aunt Emily. She told me that my cousin, Ashlyn, had been diagnosed with a brain tumor. She was only eleven years old, and I had spent many of my childhood days with her as my live baby doll. After I went to their house and spent the evening with that part of my family, the conversation turned to my vehicle, somehow. It had been making some strange noise. Aunt Em said she’d have her boyfriend come over and take a look. He took this as an opportunity to play matchmaker. With him were 3 guys I’d never met when he pulled into the dirt driveway. My eyes met those ice blue irises of the tallest man as he was introduced to me, and my heart fluttered. I know, it seems silly, but I was instantly entranced by him. He was tall, with broad shoulders, dirty blonde hair, and a bit of reddish scruff on his face. After the other men made fools of themselves arguing over what was wrong with my truck, Matthew, A.K.A. Twice, quietly murmured that it was a loose belt. He turned out to be right. Following the diagnosis of my old Chevy, we made our way inside to play cards. He chose not to play, but I seated myself next to him so I could shamelessly flirt and tease. He kissed me that first night, and I can remember my insides feeling like molten lava. My knees trembled, and I was shaking by the time he turned and walked away.
Over the span of the next few days, I’d moved into my aunt’s house, and Twice spent most of his time there. He moved in shortly after. We were inseparable. I clung to him as a dying man to his last breath of oxygen. I was starved for everything he offered. He gave me his time, love, and attention. He picked me flowers and picked out my favorite flavors of candy while eating the flavors I hated. He opened the doors for me. He was perfection in every way. He was married at the time, though they were in the process of a divorce. They had been separated for months, and they were both in relationships with someone else. They had two children, H and T, who were six and two, respectively. The older child looked nearly identical to his father, and the younger favored his mother more closely. I adored those boys. At first, the relationship was a bit rocky when it came to coparenting. I was blind to most of the red flags because nothing could convince me that Twice was anything but the perfect man. After some time, we moved out of my aunt’s house and into a camper. We shared the use of my vehicle, and Twice worked in concrete and construction.
My mom and I maintained a shaky connection. She was not pleased with everything that had transpired between my departure from my Nanna’s home to this situation I found myself in with Twice. She also was not on the best terms with the aunt I briefly stayed with, though I’m not entirely clear on that particular situation. One day, I got the call from Bobby that my mom was not well. She’d suffered a stroke that had gone undiagnosed at a recent hospital visit. She was already mostly blind and had been having terrible headaches. Because of this misstep on the hospital staff’s part, she fell into a state that wasn’t quite a coma but wasn’t fully conscious either. Nanna took my brother and me to see her at the hospital in Jackson, MS. She was sitting upright in a bed with her sheets and gown twisted around her. A plastic curtain encircled her bed and kept her separate from visitors and staff. The room was littered with trash and remnants from numerous meals and medical supplies. Her hair was knotted and tangled with dried clumps of substance from some test they’d done days prior. I was furious with the state of both my mom and her surroundings. It was clear that the staff felt safe in treating her with such disregard because she’d not had a visitor in days. Bobby had to work and was unable to travel that far until he was off. I called for my mom, but she didn’t even twitch or shift to acknowledge that she’d heard me. Her dull eyes stared straight ahead, and drool had dried in the corners of her mouth.
The next time I saw her was probably some months later. Twice and I made the drive to see her. This time, she was hooked up to life support machinery. Every part of her body was connected to some sort of wires or tubing to keep it functional. That was the last time I saw my mom. Because she was hours away, my vehicle was not dependable, and I was afraid, I never visited again. She wasn’t in that shell. I was faxed paperwork by Hospice staff to fill out periodically. Lectured on my absence by the nurses, I would vehemently attempt to explain my situation. I was nineteen and held the power of attorney for my mother because she and I had no other options. I could only despair in our most recent conversations. She’d begged me to leave “that lowlife” and come live with her. I refused because I allowed myself to believe she would be around for a long time and he was worth choosing above all.
I got the call around 7:15 or so one morning that she wouldn’t last much longer. I scrambled to find a way to get to her to say good-bye. Mere minutes later, my phone rang again. The nurse gently notified me of her passing. Mom’s kidneys had failed, and the rest of her body followed quickly. Though I wasn’t surprised by her passing, I was devastated. I’d hoped and prayed that it would all just go away. I’d ignored the truth at every turn. I no longer had a mom. I had just reconnected with her, and I’d only actually spent time with her twice over the span of nine years. I didn’t have long to process my loss before realizing I had tasks ahead of me with which I had absolutely no experience. I’d never had to make decisions regarding the removal of a body from a home, its disposal method, or anything else of that nature. I was in uncharted territory. I had no money, and I’d already pawned the title to my truck in a desperate situation. I began to google and call around to find out what my next steps should be. I was told there was a fee for the transport of her body, typically dependent on distance travelled. There would be a daily fee for storage. The lowest price I could find for the most basic cremation was about $1400. I did the only sensible thing at the time, and I called my dad. He offered to give me the $200 I needed to pay off my current title loan. I was able to do that and get a new one for the cremation expenses.
My phone rang a couple of days later; it was the funeral home director notifying me that my mother’s remains were ready. Twice drove us from the coast where we’d been staying with his dad to the funeral home in Hattiesburg. The trip was tense and quiet. I still didn’t know quite how to process my feelings, and Twice was not the best at communication in heavy situations. Twice eased into a space near the front door of the ominous looking building. My eyes gravitated to the chimney as grim thoughts drifted through my mind. Shaking off the dreadful feelings, I got my purse and made my way into the last place I wanted to be. The inside smelled musty and aged. Death isn’t something one describes as a scent, but I could both feel and smell it in the air of the empty funeral home. I followed signs until I found the office where I was to receive what was left of the woman who gave me life. A businesslike man in a sharp grey suit offered a warm smile as he gestured for us to sit in the antique style maroon chairs. They were stark against the gaudy, forest green carpet. Clearing his throat, the man pushed a stack of paperwork and folders across the desk and began to drone unintelligibly. My head was filled with buzzing as I read through my options. The packages listed were reminiscent of those one fills out when purchasing school pictures. My stomach churned as I found the box located at the bottom that detailed the most basic option: cremation with no services. It had already been checked as we had previously discussed over the phone. The man cleared his throat and I realized he’d finished with his well-practiced monologue. Twice handed the man his check, and I stretched my mouth into what felt like a smile. The man left for a few moments before returning with a burgundy velvet bag with a drawstring at the top. I stood to take it from him and was shocked at the weight. It contained a box that held a bag of ashes. I couldn’t feel my face as I struggled to remember how to use my arms to hold the box. I was disgusted and numb at the same time. In my arms, I held my mother, the being who’d both created and destroyed me. I asked that Twice take the bag and place it behind my seat. I’d held myself together long enough.
After a few minutes of strained silence, I lit a cigarette. Twice looked at me in mock horror. “Hey, don’t light that in here! What will your mother think?” he asked. I stared at him for a few moments before bursting into shocked laughter. I was delirious by this point, and his methods, though crude, worked. We continued in this manner for the duration of the trip. I cursed and he shushed me. I giggled when he said Mom would hear me.
While it may seem that he lacked compassion in making such remarks, Twice was comforting/distracting me in the only way he could. He loved me in the only way he knew. Unfortunately a combination of a terrible upbringing, a chemically imbalanced brain, and years of substance abuse had warped his understanding of love. Twice would stop on the side of the highway when he saw pretty flowers to pick them for me. I told him my favorite flower was the orange, speckled tiger lily, and he brought me five different plants one morning as a surprise. He wasn’t sure he’d picked the right one, so he opted for a variety. He could be so tender and caring, my heart would melt for him. He made me laugh and showered me with affection.
***This tale will be continued in the next part. Twice played a large role in the last eight or so years of my life and was the source of some of my greatest traumas. I don’t say that in an accusatory way. I loved him. But, it took me years of experience and growth to fully understand what I’d been through. If you’ve stuck with me this far, thank you. I am nearly finished with my Trauma Narrative, and, to be quite honest, I feel so much freer than I did when I began this journey.
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