Mom and I fought again last night.
She doesn’t listen to what I say. I say the same thing every time and she doesn’t understand.
So she, the judge and jury, accuses me. She points her finger at me and says, “So, what are you going to do with yourself, you lazy little girl?”
Of course, those aren’t the exact words, but that’s what the words mean.
And I try to explain, very slowly, that I’m trying to be a writer. I helped out at the Xayyachacks’ with their bed and breakfast. I saved money. I offered to pay rent if that’s what she wanted.
“Oh, oh, oh!” she sputters accusingly. “You’re going to be a writer! You’re going to write the great American novel, is that it? Well, let me see it. Let me read it. Let me feel it between my fingers.” And she gives me this evil smile.
And I try to explain that nothing’s written yet. My writing process is like an iceberg: you can’t see 90% of it.
“You’re deceiving yourself,” she says, softly, like a snake. “You’re hiding because of what happened. You need to go back into the world. Stop isolating yourself. Nothing can change the past, so just forget it. Throw yourself into the mad, frothing chaos of the world. Then you’ll understand.”
I can’t hardly keep from screaming now. She always brings that up. Yes, I’m mad. I’m mad, so mad sometimes I just have to take a deep breath, close my eyes, and get away from everyone. She knows I yelled at God and we’re only now on talking terms again. She knows it all. She knows IT ALL. But that’s not why I stayed home from college. That’s not why I haven’t gotten a job. I’m choosing to do this. I want to do this. I need to do this. And she can’t understand that.
I screamed at her. I said horrible, mean things. I’m not sorry. I know I should be, but I’m not. She hurt me and I’m sick, sick, sick of being hurt.
I want the last six months to disappear.