When I close my eyes to sleep, I swear I can feel her arms around me.
My grieving brain whispers to my body: to feel the pseudo-pulse of her veins, she must be holding me so tightly — afraid that if she lets go, there will be no return.
After all, the two of us know the pain of distance too well.
My mom has been dead for a little over five years now, but not a day goes by where I am not affected by the legacy she left. She was an addict — starting years before I was born — and the reality of my mom’s addiction is that it was inescapable.
Growing up, I was told that addiction was an illness, something impermanent — treatable — but for my mom, it was terminal. It was the type of illness that took my mom, born beautiful with potential, that slowly rotted her insides. It was the type of illness that clouded her mind — making the addiction her only clear focus. It was the type of illness that made her spend her last years not present in my life, bouncing from house to house — street to street.
I remember when my grandma would nervously stir lentils, mulling over whether she should tell me that the reason I must stay downstairs is because my mom begged to come see me and eat a home cooked meal. I would wait at the front door, eagerly anticipating a knock. Sometimes my mother would come, each time looking more sick, and I would giggle her name: “Mama!” Other times, I was greeted only by the headlights of passing cars through the doors’ stained-glass window — my mom getting her fix and too ashamed to go through with her plans of coming for dinner, too ashamed to face her mother and her daughter.
I remember seeing her wait at the bus stop, her hair tangled and clothes worn — and pointing to her as my grandpa drove down Josey, “Look! It’s Mama!” I remember how he swerved out of shock and kept driving — not saying a word. I remember the thin, pale face of the man who bought me a My Little Pony, who introduced my mom to heroin, whose voice I can still hear.
I remember staying in women’s shelters, emergency homes and not knowing where I would wake up the next morning. I remember watching everyone I loved fight with mom. I remember swimming, reading and watching TV — my mom, near the end, always distant — caught in a trance and empty.
I remember the feelings of uncertainty, lack of stability and feeling out of control; my little heart beating like a frightened rabbit, but I also remember how much she loved me. Before she was homeless, she would always make sure I ate the healthiest food, consumed the safest and most educational media and received the best schooling — despite my parents making little money. I never once doubted her love for me. I miss her despite everything, because I know the pain she was in, and I know how hard she fought to keep me from seeing her nod off on the couch or stumble through the kitchen.
Growing up with a mother as an addict has caused my nervous system to be out of order. I’m prone to become triggered out of nowhere, which makes it hard to regulate. There are days I can’t escape the body of myself as a little girl — I feel paralyzed in the past. There are hours where I can’t manage to speak. It seems that no matter where I go, what I do, or who I am with, there is always a steady burn in the depths of my stomach — a feeling that I am not safe and that I need to keep my guard, but I have learned so much from this state of “fight-or-flight,” and my sensitivity has made me a kinder person.
Having loved a mom, who was an addict, I always try to understand people to my best ability and treat them with empathy. Everyone struggles and deals with darkness, and everyone — especially addicts — are good people dealt bad hands. To understand a greater problem, one must understand the people plagued by it and provide aid to them.
The feelings and experiences of kids are often overlooked and pushed aside, but inside every adult is a child shaped by whatever happened in their developing years. It is vital that the community looks out for young children and teaches them that they are loved, appreciated and important no matter who they are or where they came from.
I love my mom despite the trauma I’ve endured, and I miss her; therefore I will do my best to always fight for those who can’t.
