My childhood spearheaded by a mother obsessed with visual perfection had baptized me for this life; but my present reality was not a contrived plan. I had no intention of marrying. None at all. After two failed marriages before the age of twenty-five and one child out of my youthful carelessness, I was single for life. My gifted son had finally flown the nest and as a celebration of my new found independence I relinquished the responsibility of yard maintenance and purchased a townhome. Unknowingly, with one stroke of a pen I surrendered my life to the ravages of toxic black mold.
Tag : Single Parent
Chapter 3
A DNA mutation had left me with extra guilt chromosome. Single motherhood nurtured this milady like a master gardener.
Chapter 4
And there it is, like a serial killer with a knife stabbing us over and over again. We want to scream, "I'm dead already. Stop!" But we don't. We don't because we know we screwed up. We know we deserve to feel this horrible shameful guilt because our child is the only ten-year-old in the entire fifth grade class who didn't turn in one red cent for the Christmas drive.
Chapter 6
My mental health wouldn’t allow such sound decisions. I, the product of a dysfunctional alcoholic family, was anything but daddy’s little girl. I was the spit in his eye, the stone in his shoe, the child he tried hard to wipe from the face of the earth every chance he got. In short, my inner child desperately needed to feel loved and wanted - just once in her life.
Chapter 7
Despite my tendencies toward self-destruction, which had been mentioned once or twice by a few former friends and ex-therapists, I like to think of myself as a visionary. (Perspective is everything.) One could say that our foray into living in other people’s houses was a brilliant move that perfectly positioned us to ride out the worldwide economic collapse. It all began innocently enough with a suggestion from my mother. In all fairness to her, it really began with a red sofa.
Chapter 8
My anit-dates would be all gussied up, shinning like a new penny with broad non-chemically treated smiles, clearly excited about the evening they mistakenly believed awaited them. I'd open the door and say, "What are you (emphasize, you) doing here?" Their explanation followed. These were nice guys, the kind of guys I didn’t like.
Chapter 14
My middle sister was always claiming she was talking to fairies in the woods around our house and aliens had abducted her as excuse for always missing curfew. Growing up in a family where insanity was the norm, my instincts taught me to question everything and everybody.
Chapter 25
In the slammer, graffitied walls held pearls of wisdom: Don’t trust nobody, Life sucks, basic information I had learned by nursery school.
Decoding decades of teen hieroglyphics carved into the wooden table in the middle of the large holding cell brought with it a disturbing reality. It wasn’t the quality of art that bothered me or the string of obscenities; it was the idea that clearly knifes weren’t so hard to come by in juve. I hadn’t even brought a marker, clearly I was uninitiated.
I heard the large metal door to the cell clang open, and in stepped Godzilla with his handler. The enormous, hairy youth was handcuffed to a police officer whose face I didn’t recognize. He half-pulled, half-pushed his teenage hostage into the cell. Godzilla turned for the officer to uncuff him. Obviously he knew the drill. Neither said a word. I tried to look tough in my hip-hugging bell bottoms and Elton John platform shoes. I shook my long blonde shag hairdo while they weren’t paying attention, hoping for a less manicured, more street-wise persona. I hoisted myself onto the top of the table and sat down, planting my feet squarely on the bench below. Godzilla glared at me from under his shaggy hair; our eyes met. I didn’t flinch, but my heart pounded out a John Bonham drum solo in my chest.
Chapter 26
I began plotting new strategies to eliminate the monster in our midst. The more authority he exerted, the more rebellious I became. Without much effort, our battle of wits turned into a full-contact sport, and some days I was winning. Point and counterpoint, check and checkmate. When he went to the country club for his five-martini lunches, I skipped school and charged lunch to his bill at the club, making sure to waltz past the bar in my bathing suit smiling sweetly into his drunken face. When he threatened me with another lock-up, I threatened him with what I knew about his drinking before going into the courtroom to try a case. I knew where every liquor bottle was hidden in his office. I was completely capable of exposing him, of ruining him; he could feel my palpable hatred and I his.