yup, yup, another set of wordez.
when my mom would get angry she would throw plates and dishes and if she didn't get her way she told us she was dying. we split up jewelery on the bed while she wheezed and grew quiet and then i would take my little sister to the babysitter's until she stopped dying and called to have us come home. later, when she had her strength back, maybe she'd make dinner. maybe i would. maybe we'd wait until my dad got home and go out to denny's for dinner.
i wasn't an abused kid growing up; i was just another little girl who learned too early that the world wasn't very nice. i used to wish my mother was a secret alcoholic so she would have an excuse. i could come home from school and smell on her breath who would have to be mommy. there would be signs and always a hope of a life without alcohol; there could be (someday) alcoholic's anonymous, support in the form of other adults, apologies and new beginnings. instead there were angels and aura readings and long nights of screaming: my mother and i, my mother and my father, my mother and the telephone. no way out, no excuses, just volume.
(more to come.)