How to be Happy
I have some sort of complex that prevents me from telling people what I’m really thinking about. My family barely knows my favorite food (tomato soup), let alone the guy I have a crush on (Stone) or my hopes for the future (hell, I don’t even know those). So, when things start piling up, they sit like rocks in the bottom of my stomach and weigh me down. Well, eventually, the pressure becomes too much. At times it helps to say them out loud. Some things I will tell to a friend. Maybe I just need to make a list.
But sometimes nothing else works. Sometimes the number of bad things outweigh the number of good things. Sometimes it all happens at once and there’s just no stopping it. Sometimes my mommy asks what’s wrong, and I have the overwhelming desire to tell her.
I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve broken down in front of my mom that I can remember. Four. There were four heartaches I couldn’t heal. They were all when i was older, because she wasn’t there for me to cry on until i was entering high school. But that was okay. The strange thing is, as awful as it felt to put my secrets on someone else’s shoulders, things always seemed better afterwards. Good moms have a way of making things okay no matter what.
Most of my life was pretty straight forward. My parents were long separated (long before I can remember), but maintained decent communication. I only hated my brother some of the time. I got good grades and I could sing and I had good friends. My family was just far away enough that I didn’t go crazy. I had five goldfish and one dog. We had moved into our first house. And I was just a few months away from paradise: high school. Then my mom moved to Arizona. I was ecstatic, aside from the initial awkwardness. I couldn’t wait to have a woman in my life again.
1) A few months went by and things were going alright. My mom had gotten a house near my school and was working from home for a company back in California. Well, things at her house were kind of lonely, and the neighborhood was pretty empty, so I finally convinced her to get a dog. The first place we went to was right by my dads house and was where we had found my dads dog, Marcus. They seemed nice enough to me. I was wrong. As soon as we mentioned that Marcus spent some winter days outside, they went off on us. Or, at least, that was what it felt like. It felt like they knew all of the things I felt guilty about and were prepared to list them off in order. I was furious, and I was shameful. I believed everything they said about how awful we were and how our dog didn’t deserve it. My mom did the best thing she could for me: she was the better person, and we walked away. I thought I could hold it in once we got outside. I could feel the tears welling up, but as long as that was the end of it, I could hold them in. She asked if I was okay. I fought them back. She asked if I was sure. I nodded and looked away. Then she went off about how they had no right to say any of it, and that it was okay, I shouldn’t feel bad. That was when I broke. We had to pull off of the road so that she could console me, I was overtaken with guilt. I loved Marcus, I loved him like a little brother, and they accused me of hating him. And so I cried, like a child, until my mom could pick up the pieces and put me back together again. And then I was okay. We drove off, and haven’t been back since.
No, lady, you don’t shelter bitches, you are one. (Uncalled for but you can see I haven’t forgiven that one.)
Breaking up with Rene.
The cancer diagnosis.