In one house, I’ve spent my entire adolescence. This one bedroom has seen all of my school backpacks and homework, the clothes of my first job, the grams of weed I bought when I was fifteen. My parents are currently making plans on moving out, as of right now I feel zero feelings of sentiment, but I am prepared for the waves to come once I no longer wake up in my little 15 by 15 foot room. Today I was taking my mom to a storage facility(for someone reason it’s like 11 miles away), moving a dozen or so boxes full of the plates I ate on as a kid and the decor that hung on these walls that I’ve never directly stared at. On the way there, I’m starting a dialogue with my mother purely for understanding her feelings about our home of 18 years. She quickly started to dominate the conversation(sounds familiar), unloading all of these memories about the house she actually wanted and how things would be different if they did get that one level, one acre home literally 0.20 miles away from where we are now.
“I remember where I couldn’t even see the point of stepping out the motherfucking house” -anderson paak
Today I had the opportunity to make the decision of whether or not to cry in front of my mom. Here she is telling me the problematic situations I couldn’t even understand because I was either too young or I am presently too ignorant to even process accurately. How she was shocked to learn that her husband owed 11,000 dollars(2001) in school loans and how that affected how they lived after spending all of their money moving into their second option because they couldn’t afford the house they wanted. How it was financially difficult for them to even have me and my brother play in basketball and football leagues, something that I found to be normal. How as an aging handicapped person, she can’t handle the struggle of living in a two-story household. How she was scared my father would leave her when she got sick and couldn’t walk anymore. This was when I made the decision to not show her my emotional sensitivity. I wish I did. She told me multiple stories of people she knew that was abandoned by their spouse because they went through health complications, and how grateful she was that her husband stuck with those hardships. In my head, the immediate response to these stories was empathetic to those who left their wives, thinking “well that’s just how it is,” but really for the first time in my life I was fucking stunned at reflecting how my dad went through some fucked up shit, things you never prepare for, especially with your loved ones. Having to work as many hours as you can, come home to your two kids, and support your sick wife. Like what the fuck is he doing pulling through with that to the best of his ability?
My mom looked happy and I felt like I was dissociating. I’m motivated in a disappointed way to learn more about my parents in an emotional sense. In a span of 11 minutes I was reminded of how fucked up my life could’ve been if it weren’t for my mother and father’s will to endure misfortunes. They’re dying before my eyes and no one else is going to hold on to the stories of their lives. It’s messed up to know that it’s my obligation to discover as much as I can about these two people and try my best to live in their honor, or at least make sure they live on through me.
“Well darling I’m just trying to tell ya, that there’s always been a rainbow hanging over your head” -kacey musgraves
I Hate The Real Me 