My Mother's Son
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"I must be dead," I rejoice to myself as I fully realize the state of
euphoria
that I enjoy.
Enjoy is not a word that I am able to frequently use, it is almost a stranger. I may not even be in enjoyment now for my ability to recognize it is in an early developmental stage, almost like a fetus in human terms, without sensors or even knowing how to survive on its own. Therefore it is crucial for it to be left free to discover itself, just as a child would. To learn its abilities and its faults, to draw the line between where it can and can not go. To accomplish this my mind needs to be free of all of bothers that life has brought me, intentional or not. If I do not completely clear my mind, my ability to enjoy may be permanently altered or even destroyed. If I wanted, just like a human fetus, I could be aborted at this very moment. I'd never have to worry about trying to achieve enjoyment in my life, like so many desperately do. I'd save myself from all of the work associated with trying, energy which I could put into my career so that I could rise above the rest. It is an interesting thought, as benign as it may be. I will never rise above the rest because of my current place in society and all associated things that tie me down to the bottom rung of the ladder. To strive for a live of career success at the cost of enjoyment is therefore voided. On the other hand, striving for enjoyment at the cost of career success it also impossible because it is so rare an occasion that I experience this feeling. It’s a no win situation. I believe that enjoyment is an acquired skill on the same level as walking. If you fail to learn how to achieve joy at an early age, it’s an uphill battle. It could be learned later in life, but never on the same level as an early acquirement. If not learned by age twenty, there is no point in trying anymore because one is too set in their ways. I may have three years yet to go, but I don't feel that I have the energy within to try any longer. Maybe it would be in my best interest to strive for a life that balances joy and career success. It is a reasonable thought, not impossible. Many set out to do the same, but end up trying to steal more enjoyment while having more success. They undoubtedly fail, for a high concentration of both is impossible. If they were to stay on one path like I would, they would too find a true equilibrium. However, it is contrary to the nature of humans to do this, and maybe that is for the best. After all, if everyone were to be in equilibrium, there wouldn't be the modern world that we now take for granted. If the Americans who developed space age technology in the cold war had not sacrificed their own enjoyment for successful careers, would we now be in a Russian gulag scrimmaging for food? If scientists had strived for more enjoyment than career success, how many millions would be dying each year of influenza or scarlet fever? It poses an interesting question. Maybe some weren't meant to have happiness. Maybe they are the ones who are supposed to carry the weight of the world on their shoulders. Maybe we are the ones who were designed to save human kind from its own faults. To make that one point one would also have to wonder why some who could be doing so many more important things bother to waste their time on silicone breast implants and cloning humans when they could be developing a cure for AIDS or solving world hunger. Maybe these people are the impostors who try to make the public believe that they are the successful ones when in actuality they are the fakes. The truly successful ones are the groups trying to save patches of the rain forest, the lowly scientist in the laboratory on the verge of curing cancer, the teacher who tries to transform simple slobs into successful academics. Maybe I am part of that group, or the lowly scientist, or even the teacher. Maybe I am successful. With all that I can do to help mankind, is enjoyment truly that important? However, if I am dead, none of these arguments will have value, much like my life. To discover if I am alive or not, I struggle to open my eyes. They are sore, an omen that I am still among the living because any type of pain in death is impossible, or so I have come to believe. Then again, that could be another insane dream of mine, like the thought of happiness. Alas, any doubts that I may have had are resolved when I manage to see through my haze to the alarm clock, which is blinking an annoying '12:00'. That blinking is perhaps one of the greatest irks of the modern mankind, although before this day I have never known the reason why. Unfortunately, I now completely understand. I have a brute force within that almost compels me to destroy the alarm clock, but I haven’t the physical energy to perform the act. The amount that I have only allows me to lazily prop myself up on the bed, my head resting against the window. It’s too bad that Montreal isn’t a war zone, for if it was, a sniper might shoot me and relieve my mind of the pounding headache that is now engulfing it. The pain is only relative though, if I were to cut off a finger it would probably hurt more. Although, on second inspection, probably not, I'd have to disembowel myself. Damn those inconsiderate drug companies. They never think of the poor ones who fail at suicide and the after effects of the drugs. Now I’ll have to sue. The telephone rings, taking me by complete surprise. In an unusual burst of energy, I fly across the room my nightstand and pick up the receiver. “What do you want?” unfortunately, the burst of energy does not extend to my personality. “Good morning sir and how are you today?” a flamboyant female voice answers. Despite the niceness, I have no patience, “What the fuck do you want?” "That's great, I'm glad that you having a nice day," she seemingly ignores my comment. That makes me feel even more sick, “What, is Wal-Mart telemarketing now?” "No," the pleasantries continue, "I'm from Tritel communication services and I would like a moment of your time." I am so understatedly annoyed that I'm developing a nervous tick, "I'm not interested." "Are you sure? We have a 50% discount on evenings and weekend on top of our famed nine-cent a minute great savings event. We also have special Internet deals for those who sign on this month only." Okay, I understand the game now. It must be necessary for me to be extremely blunt with her in order for comprehension. I decide to play along, “You wanna do something for me?” “Are you some kind of pervert?” she becomes offended. I am almost shocked. I would be fully, but nothing does that to me any more. “What happened to your niceness?” "Look, I didn't choose this job. The job market here is very tight and you have to take what you can get." "I'm sorry," I try to be sincere. "Sure you are. Your just like all the rest and would rather see all telemarketers dead than buy something from them. You people have to realize that this is my job, my bread and butter. Without it I'd have to go around naked and starve," she snaps, hanging the phone up. "Bitch," is the only reply that I can compose. Oh well, that's only another person in the world who doesn't like me, maybe I finally have the record. But for some inexplicable reason I feel like crying. But I cannot let myself do it for I must be happy. But for what? There is nothing left to be happy for. I am again shown that I am not one meant to enjoy my life. Speaking of not enjoying myself, now is the time that I must go back into the kitchen to face the group that I alienated myself in front of the night previous. It will be hell, but it must be done. As I open the bedroom door, I notice that my head affliction has ceased to throb. But I won't be able to enjoy it because I'll have another monstrosity after the events unfold in five to ten minutes. I take a deep breath only to notice that the smell of greasy bacon and burnt toast is not present which is somewhat of an anomaly in this roadhouse of an apartment. Despite the common smell, Mom does take her heath seriously. She always makes sure that wheat- germ is sprinkled on her fried chicken. Gary calls that 'a balanced meal' because it compromises all of the southern food groups: fat, chicken and grains. And if that doesn’t spell diorreah, nothing does. I slowly creep down the hall trying to think of what I could possibly say to mend a few of the fences that I have broken. I don't care to mend them all; in fact, I don't care to mend any of them. However, for the sake of my well being I must put some sort of effort into my life and its external relations. I stop just as I reach the doorway of the guest bedroom. As I slowly open it, I notice that, just as before, boxes are strewn everywhere and there is no sign of human life about. That suggests that Grandma has left or that Clairese is still be visiting. Grandma couldn't have left already though, she would have only been here for one night and that what would be the point in that? Curiosity continues to grip me tighter and tighter as I move down the hall, but then the kitchen table comes into view. The grip is released. At one end of the table sits a bottle. Not a particularly proud one, nor one of peace or substance. It is a bottle of vodka. It appears sombre and lonely, as if it needs a friend. It fits perfectly into the dark decor of the room like nothing else would. At the other end of the table is another thing that fits perfectly into the decor. Like the vodka, it also appears sombre and lonely, in need of a friend. It is, of course, my mother. Maybe they can comfort each other. With champagne glass in hand, she lovingly picks up the bottle, caressing it as a normal person would a baby. To her it is a child, loving, needy, deserving of her attention, which it always gets. It is the child that she has vowed to raise correctly, unlike myself. Maybe I was her test case and the vodka was the real thing. Oh to be that bottle, for then I would truly know the meaning of love. She silently pours herself a glass of the potent Russian poison. She doesn't weaken the drink as others would because she's man enough to take it full force. She looks down into the dark liquid, as if it was her soul, but then quickly looks away. She sees a vacant reflection that she doesn't like. If she were to only look in the mirror she would see so much more, but she is afraid. She takes a deep breath as if to flush her soul, then puts the drink to her mouth. But instead of drinking as I had expected, disappointed, she sighs and puts the glass down. She then picks up the vodka bottle itself and looks deep inside, desperately hoping to achieve some sort of meaning. In a shaky voice she sobs, "I hate you." No she doesn't, that's not true. She still loves the bottle very much as she always has. For me, it has been like the sibling who gets everything it wants. I am, in a way, jealous. Now she says that she hates it? I almost feel compassion towards the bottle for it is not used to this kind of treatment. She 'hates' it. Is that really fair? Once again, "I hate you.... I hate you." Then, in an instant, like a person gone mad, she heaves the bottle towards the living room where it hits a wall. As she does, I realize that she is stronger than I have ever thought. It has controlled her for so long, but now she controls it. Maybe this will be the turning point in our lives as she was describing the night before. I passed her notions off as ludicrous because I didn't see an end, but now I do. She finally has will. But alas, it is not to be. Just as quickly as she threw the bottle and changed our lives, she takes a drink from Satan's cup and reverses the fortune. I should have known that it wouldn't last because nothing lasts in our lives except for pain and ignorance. I am in even lower spirits now than before because the light in our lives was turned on, and just as quickly turned off. I saw the path towards a better life for just an instant, but now I am lost in the dark again. If only the sun were to rise. She is now sobbing as she drinks, but I fail to feel compassion for her. I know that I should, but I don't have it within. With her spirits broken even more than before, I decide it the most opportune time to take the seat opposite her at the table. As I do this, I notice that she doesn't look at me, but instead into the glass of vodka sitting in front of her. She must be able to relate more to it than to me, which is sad, but it is also good because I don't want to be able to relate to her in anyway imaginable. She still refuses to look at me, something that is becoming annoying. She speaks regardless, "You took enough sleeping pills, I had to get a new prescription. You slept so long that I thought that you were dead.” “So you were going to leave my carcass to rot in the bedroom?” I almost feel disgusted. "You slept for two days," she ignores my comment. "Mom was worried." “Weren’t you?” "I told her that you'd be okay," she ignores me again, "and that I'd call her if anything was to happen." I reflect, then realize my accomplishment, “Wow, two days! I’m impressed with myself. And I beat your record by a few hours." "Don't," she simply states, obviously referring to my deadpan. "Why did you take so many ?" "I wanted to kill myself, couldn't you put two and two together? Unfortunately I woke up this morning," I pause to draw a conclusion. "I have the worst of luck." "I thought that that was my distinction," she tries to joke, but it falls flat. “Why, because of me?” I ruthlessly inquire. "Don't ever say that again,“ my comment is not well received. Temporarily put back into my place, I must venture out again, “Do you see me as a punishment?” She sighs, "I don't want to ever hear that from you. You are mine and that will never change. I'd never give up on you or hurt you." “Then why are you punishing me?” “What do you mean by ‘punishment’?” “Well,” I pause to put my words together, “Telling me about it, what was the relevance of telling me?” "I... "I mean, " I cut her off, "it made me horrible. I wanted to kill myself because of it." "I have no regrets in doing it," she pauses, "It was appropriate." "I can’t possibly think of a reason why." "You can't see from my point of view and I think that that is one of the grandest human flaws. It was something that I needed to do and I knew that you were mature enough to handle it." "Obviously not," I downplay her comments. "Trust me, you are. I think that maturity is when you know exactly what your goals are you are able to create the conditions to obtain them and you've done that." she shakes her head. "I only fully realized how mature you are at the dinner." In a way I want to smile and thank her for the comment, but in another way I want to smack her for knowing so much about me. I have never expected so much of her. "I thought that you hated what I did at the dinner." "Don't mistake me, I didn't like it at all, and I know that nobody else did either," she reprimands, "But I also know that you planned the whole thing out and it went exactly as planned. You managed to manipulate four people to your will and it takes a lot of maturity to do that." I lower my face into my hands, "Maturity or not, I didn't want to know. Didn’t it ever clue into you that it was just one of those things that I’d be better off not knowing?” "Nobody is better off not knowing," she preaches. "Ignorance is the world’s worst disease." I become frustrated, "I'm not the world." "That's a poor excuse." “You don’t understand, do you? Have you ever had your whole life’s foundation ripped out from under you when you didn’t have that much to begin with?” I drill, “What was your life like when you were seventeen? Oh, sorry, I forgot, lollipops and fairy tales. You grew up in a happy family." "That's not even close to being true. I’ve have my whole foundation along with everything else ripped out from under me,” she becomes very defensive, “Do you want to know when? Do you? It was the night that I was raped." I start to feel sick, "I don't have the time for this, I've got to go somewhere." As I stand, she orders, "Sit down, we're not done." "Why should I sit down? To hear you mumblings that make me feel like I'm the worst thing ever created? I don't have the patience for this." She becomes violent, "You sit down and shut up. I've had the patience with you for the past seventeen years. You owe me this and so much more." "I owe you nothing," I spit. "Sit back down or go pack up your stuff and be out of here by tonight," she takes a deep breath, "You have you choice, now make it." Her ultimatum somewhat stuns me. I don't even want to think about another night on the streets; the last one was too draining emotionally and physically. If I was to leave, I'd have to pack some stuff and I really don't have the energy to do that. So, as a last resort, I retake my seat. Not because of her order, but instead because I am, to put it bluntly, lazy. But I feel even more sick now than before, "You've got me, now what are you going to do with me?" "I want to tell you a story about an innocent girl who had her life turned upside down," she says, the alcohol obviously affecting her. “Innocent? Then I guess it isn't your life story." She ignores my deadpan, "This girl was only seventeen years old, but life was going well for her. She didn't graduate, but she had gotten a job at the Eaton's downtown at the make-up counter and she even had her own apartment," she stops to take a drink. I feel that I should be now make a snarky comment as I usually would, but something is compelling me not to. Maybe it's the thing that's making me sick, who knows. She continues, "Then she lost her job and then the apartment, but she was determined not to go back to her mother. Her mother told her before she left that she'd never accomplish anything in the world. She had to prove her wrong no matter what the personal cost. She then bounced around from job to job, never liking any of them. Started out as a waitress, spilt drinks, then a cashier, lost money and then she tried something which she swore she'd never, ever do," she takes a deep breath along with a drink, "Her friend set her up with an older man who wanted to sleep with her." It wouldn't take a genius to figure out who she is referring to in her story. However, I do understand why she will not reveal herself in the story. Somehow it comforts her to be only superficially telling the story, not living it. Thus, maybe she can convince herself that she is living a different existence instead of the hell that engulfs her. She tries to hold back painful tears, "She had to convince herself that it was only physical, but as the time approached she felt so sick that she couldn't even get out of bed. But then the day came and she knew that it would have to be all or nothing, so she chose both. If she could get through it just once she knew that she could do it again and again. After a few times, there would be no emotions left, it would just be a money for services rendered transaction. The only problem was that the first time was going to kill her, she knew that she couldn't do it, but she had to. So, on the way to that dingy east-end hotel room, she put all doubts out of her mind. She separated her mind from her body and let it float away because she would no longer need it after that night She knew that she wouldn't be able to live with herself afterwards, so she let go. But her mind wouldn't leave, it was still hanging on to something, it wouldn't leave," she begins to cry profusely. I should say something to comfort her, but I know there is nothing to say. "She went into the room and sat down on the bed to wait for him to arrive. The moment that he walked through that goddamn door, her mind rejoined her body and refused to leave. She told him that it was a mistake and that she had to leave, but he told her to relax and to enjoy the show. She ran for the door, but he grabbed her and covered her mouth and threw her down on the bed. And he climbed on top of me, all I could do was clench my teeth and pray to God that he would kill me at the end," she tries to recompose herself. "She passed out sometime during it and woke up only to find out that all of her innocence, self esteem, pride and entire being was only worth the twenty dollars that he threw on the bed before he left," she wipes away her tears with her shirt sleeve. "Somehow I stumbled to the door and completely in a daze made it back to Mom's, then I collapsed at the door. Once I awoke, I ran boiling hot water and bathed for hours. I scrubbed myself raw trying to get rid of all of the germs. I douched and douched trying to make it all go away. I drank so much that I didn't even know who I was for weeks. I couldn't go on any longer." I finally must break my silence, "But you did." "No I didn't. Everything that was my soul died that night. My heart, my feelings, all of my inner sanctity, all gone. All that was left was a shell. Just a lonely, pathetic body swimming aimlessly in a sea of agony. Sure, I've had to fill that shell, a person can't exist as just a shell, there has to be substance. What kind of substance is another question. I've filled my shell with cheap superficial things that only last as long as my hair colour. If I could only have my substance back, I'd give anything," she looks directly into my eyes, "Don't ever lose your substance, you'll regret it for forever." As she stands, she dries her eyes with her fingers, "I have to get out of here. I'm gonna go down to the restaurant for a while, get something to eat. I'll pick you up something." Before I am able to comment, she grabs her coat and is out the door. Left to think, I lower my head to the table and try to concentrate, but the task seems impossible. So much information to mull over, but so little energy to actually do it. However, it must be done. Only listening to her and not processing the information, I begin to feel an emotional downpour. I begin to realize that things are true to which I had only clues to before. They tear at my soul, the very fabric from which I am created. I feel so many emotions. I want to cry, I want to feel sorry for my mother and myself like anybody would want to. I want for her to cradle me and tell me that everything will be okay, but I also want to do the same to her. Her character appears so much more pathetic now than before and I feel that I should cry a thousand years for her. But I won't because I hate her even more. Why did she tell me all of this ? Was It was just to make me feel horrible, to make me feel that I should die? That’s the only reason why she would tell me. It’s now obvious, she doesn't care for me at all. Why should I care for her ? Because I love her, that's why. I love her even more now that I've learned all of the sacrifices that she has made for me. Her whole existence for the last seventeen years has been a sacrifice for me and I cant ignore that. All of my life I’ve made assumptions about her. I've made so many that I never bothered to look for the truth when it was staring me so plainly in the face. Only an idiot couldn't have read her face, her pain, her existence. I guess that I was the idiot who never bothered. So many assumptions, she worked in a strip club, she was a mother who didn't care, she was a soul without meaning, she was nothing. Obviously she was a mother who did care, she brought me into this world when it would have been so much easier just to have me aborted. But then again, that too is a questionable marker. Is it possible that she brought me into the world so she would have somebody to share the pain with ? Was it an act of revenge against the thing that the monster created ? Perhaps I will never know, but what I do know is that all of my previous assumptions about her have been made void. Only one question remains: where do I go from here?
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