Watch Over Me
Death changes everyone.
It changes the way you think, the way you feel, and the way you live your life. Sometimes it makes you thankful for what you have, but more often than not, it makes you regret the things you've lost.
I'm eighteen years old and I've spent the better part of five months in a black hole that I can't seem to claw my way out of. Every breath I take, every moment in time I experience, is another reminder that the one person who should be here with me, guiding me and supporting me, is gone.
It's Mother's Day, five months since I lost her, since I lost myself to the memories and no longer recognize the girl staring back at me in the mirror. I woke up this morning knowing what I need to do but hating it so much I want to scream and rage at the unfairness of it all. The fact that I'm still not one hundred percent sure about my decision should be a sign that I'm not ready to do this. I have no other choice, though. There is no other place I need to go, no other person I want to be with.
The sky is overcast and there is a chill in the air. It's the perfect type of weather for my mood and my plans. I roll out of bed and throw on a ratty pair of shorts and one of her shirts that I kept. I slide my feet into flip-flops and drive to the Panera Bread by my house. I order her favorite: a cinnamon crunch bagel, toasted with butter, and a large hazelnut coffee with cream, no sugar, and tell the cashier it's to-go. As she hands me my order, I hear the cashier next to her wish another customer "Happy Mother's Day." It takes everything in me not to turn and tell her to fuck off. All around me are mothers and daughters dressed for morning church services or casually clothed for a day of shopping together. The smiles on their faces and the laughter in their voices brings my mood down another few notches and forces me to swallow past the lump in my throat. I want to hate all of them. Me, the person voted "Best Friend to Everyone" and "Most Likely to Succeed in Making Everyone Laugh" in high school wants to walk up to complete strangers in a bagel shop and throw my cloud of doom over them by reminding them to cherish what they have because one day they might not have it anymore. At some point, without any warning, it can be ripped right out of their hands in the blink of an eye.
As more and more Mother's Day greetings fill the air around me, I fight the urge to scream at everyone. I snatch the bag with the cinnamon bagel in it, grab the coffee cup from the counter, and curse loudly when some of the scalding hot liquid splashes out of the drinking hole in the lid and onto my hand.
With a glare at the happy, smiling patrons, I exit Panera Bread, get into my car, and make the dreaded fifteen-minute drive to the cemetery so I can spend Mother's Day with my mom, a cup of coffee, a bottle of pills, and a straightedge razor.
Ten months later.
"Have you thought about going to a support group, Addison? I really think speaking to others who are dealing with the same hardships as yourself would benefit you tremendously."
I stare, unblinking, at my therapist as she continues with her spiel. She reminds me so much of my mother that it almost takes my breath away. The first time I walked into her office, the smell of Venezia Perfume assaulted my senses, and I almost turned and ran out of the room. I've never known of anyone else to wear that perfume, except for one person. My doctor has the same hairstyle, the same sense of humor, and gives the same type of no-nonsense advice. I've been going to see her ever since I got out of the hospital, and at this point I think I'm a glutton for punishment. I don't want to be reminded of my mom week after week, and yet I can't stay away. I can't stop myself from wanting to be near someone who is so much like her.
"Here's a list of meetings in your area," she explains, handing me a sheet of paper with locations, dates, and times typed on them. "They say that you should go to at least six meetings before you make a decision on whether or not it's right for you. Give it a try. Open yourself up to people who understand what you're going through. I really think it will help. Don't make me start lecturing you because then you'll roll your eyes at me and I'll have to nag you until you finally give in."
"Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Keep coming back. It works if you work it with a lot of love!"
The cheerfulness makes me want to roll my eyes, but instead I bite the inside of my cheek just in case Dr. Thompson somehow found a way to keep her eyes on me. A circle of twenty or so people unclasp their hands after the end-of-meeting prayer and disperse to chitchat. I never understand how these people can smile and act normal after they just spent an hour telling the room their deep, dark secrets. Like Diane, the woman whose son overdosed on heroin this past weekend after he sold off all of her furniture and jewelry to support his habit. Or Mike, the young husband whose wife drove their two daughters to school drunk, went left-of-center a mile from the school, and crashed into a telephone pole, killing the youngest daughter instantly.
It changes the way you think, the way you feel, and the way you live your life. Sometimes it makes you thankful for what you have, but more often than not, it makes you regret the things you've lost.
I'm eighteen years old and I've spent the better part of five months in a black hole that I can't seem to claw my way out of. Every breath I take, every moment in time I experience, is another reminder that the one person who should be here with me, guiding me and supporting me, is gone.
It's Mother's Day, five months since I lost her, since I lost myself to the memories and no longer recognize the girl staring back at me in the mirror. I woke up this morning knowing what I need to do but hating it so much I want to scream and rage at the unfairness of it all. The fact that I'm still not one hundred percent sure about my decision should be a sign that I'm not ready to do this. I have no other choice, though. There is no other place I need to go, no other person I want to be with.
The sky is overcast and there is a chill in the air. It's the perfect type of weather for my mood and my plans. I roll out of bed and throw on a ratty pair of shorts and one of her shirts that I kept. I slide my feet into flip-flops and drive to the Panera Bread by my house. I order her favorite: a cinnamon crunch bagel, toasted with butter, and a large hazelnut coffee with cream, no sugar, and tell the cashier it's to-go. As she hands me my order, I hear the cashier next to her wish another customer "Happy Mother's Day." It takes everything in me not to turn and tell her to fuck off. All around me are mothers and daughters dressed for morning church services or casually clothed for a day of shopping together. The smiles on their faces and the laughter in their voices brings my mood down another few notches and forces me to swallow past the lump in my throat. I want to hate all of them. Me, the person voted "Best Friend to Everyone" and "Most Likely to Succeed in Making Everyone Laugh" in high school wants to walk up to complete strangers in a bagel shop and throw my cloud of doom over them by reminding them to cherish what they have because one day they might not have it anymore. At some point, without any warning, it can be ripped right out of their hands in the blink of an eye.
As more and more Mother's Day greetings fill the air around me, I fight the urge to scream at everyone. I snatch the bag with the cinnamon bagel in it, grab the coffee cup from the counter, and curse loudly when some of the scalding hot liquid splashes out of the drinking hole in the lid and onto my hand.
With a glare at the happy, smiling patrons, I exit Panera Bread, get into my car, and make the dreaded fifteen-minute drive to the cemetery so I can spend Mother's Day with my mom, a cup of coffee, a bottle of pills, and a straightedge razor.
Ten months later.
"Have you thought about going to a support group, Addison? I really think speaking to others who are dealing with the same hardships as yourself would benefit you tremendously."
I stare, unblinking, at my therapist as she continues with her spiel. She reminds me so much of my mother that it almost takes my breath away. The first time I walked into her office, the smell of Venezia Perfume assaulted my senses, and I almost turned and ran out of the room. I've never known of anyone else to wear that perfume, except for one person. My doctor has the same hairstyle, the same sense of humor, and gives the same type of no-nonsense advice. I've been going to see her ever since I got out of the hospital, and at this point I think I'm a glutton for punishment. I don't want to be reminded of my mom week after week, and yet I can't stay away. I can't stop myself from wanting to be near someone who is so much like her.
"Here's a list of meetings in your area," she explains, handing me a sheet of paper with locations, dates, and times typed on them. "They say that you should go to at least six meetings before you make a decision on whether or not it's right for you. Give it a try. Open yourself up to people who understand what you're going through. I really think it will help. Don't make me start lecturing you because then you'll roll your eyes at me and I'll have to nag you until you finally give in."
"Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Keep coming back. It works if you work it with a lot of love!"
The cheerfulness makes me want to roll my eyes, but instead I bite the inside of my cheek just in case Dr. Thompson somehow found a way to keep her eyes on me. A circle of twenty or so people unclasp their hands after the end-of-meeting prayer and disperse to chitchat. I never understand how these people can smile and act normal after they just spent an hour telling the room their deep, dark secrets. Like Diane, the woman whose son overdosed on heroin this past weekend after he sold off all of her furniture and jewelry to support his habit. Or Mike, the young husband whose wife drove their two daughters to school drunk, went left-of-center a mile from the school, and crashed into a telephone pole, killing the youngest daughter instantly.