Today I Live, Chapter I, Part I

This is a story to be published in several parts. Keep checking in...

Part I

I never believed that I would write a book.

Though I consider myself a writer of sorts--and I actually do make money toiling away at my computer putting together words for Web sites, press releases, advertisements and brochures …the only subject matters I ever considered were those of my clients.

In fact, much of the time I hate writing. It forces me to retreat, to move inward, to find hours of comfort in a faux leather desk chair and a $100 desk from Target that is much too small for all of my necessary clutter.

But when my mother committed suicide last fall, I had no words and I had all of them. Sentences flew around my head. My heart spoke. But my lips were zipped. It’s been that way ever since.

And while I tossed and turned at night, at day, my words were neither comforting nor distressing. They just were. All this truth came out in one horrific episode of my life. My mother committing suicide.

My mama was beautiful. I don’t think there is ever a moment in my life when I looked at her and wasn’t startled by her looks. Even when she was drinking or loaded on Vicodin, she was still striking. When she lay in her casket, with the outfit I painstakingly chose, I thought, “I hope my little girl looks like you Mama.”

But I hope she never has her pain.

We could certainly get each other going. So much laughter. Too much yelling. But we loved. My mother and I loved so much. The little things like fresh flowers and a bright day for sunbathing. A few hours at TJ Maxx and some shoe shopping made us giddy. We would hit tag sales and buy junk that we always believed was absolutely necessary. We would gossip about celebrities. We would drink cheap Pinot Grigio and munch on cake, chips and Chinese food—in no particular order. We would rent movies and she would always fall asleep. I’d shake her, telling her to get into bed.

When I was in college, I wouldn’t speak to my mother for long periods of time. Weeks turned into months and one of us would finally give in. She was mad. I was mad. Today, I can’t even think of the reasons why. I had committed my college days to pot, tequila and whatever boyfriend was warming my bed. Schoolwork was secondary. My internship and part-time job were tertiary. And I suppose that my family rounded out the top five.

I wasn’t top of my mother’s priority list either. She was raising my brother who was seventeen years younger than me … and my sister was just short of thirteen years younger. I felt like a fly buzzing around when I came home for extended weekends and breaks. It wasn’t that I was invisible. I was too visible. I think now that I really missed being her kid.