Estrangement to the Rescue

"You can't stay here anymore." My mother plainly stated while loading a Marlboro Light between her lips. "I don't know what to tell you. You aren't welcome here anymore." The unlit cigarette bounced from the corner of her mouth. She angrily muttered to herself as she looked for a lighter. The kitchen table was in disarray. Peeking out from under a stack of papers was a blank matchbook. I picked them up. SHE YANKED THEM FROM MY HAND before I could offer them to her. "Give that to me." She demanded. The smell of sulfur filled the air. The kitchen overflowed with lingering smoke under fluorescent light. Puffing away as she carried on. But I wasn't listening anymore.

It was a dewy spring morning. A peaceful suburb rested against the backdrop of the Rockies. I vacantly stared into the scenery, jealous of its tranquility. I couldn't believe I was homeless again. She had kicked me out before, but his time, I wasn't going back. My car doors were open, and the engine idled. I tossed a large bag into the back seat, slamming the door behind it. Just a few more boxes, and I was on my way. My mother stood on the porch watching me. Her pajamas were disheveled and dirty. Two pairs of readers rested on her tangled, unwashed mane. She lit another smoke.

As she stood there, she screeched at me. Her abusive remarks soared over the quiet neighborhood, drowning me in humility. I had to get out of there before things got physical. That's how she was. First came the annoyed muttering under her breath about why she was angry. Then came the screaming and name-calling, then the throwing. Usually, I could get away before she started hitting me, but not always.

Hurrying past her to get the rest of my things, she stepped in my way. Blocking me from re-entering the house. After a few failed attempts, I gave in to her childish game. I stepped back, took a breath, and vexingly asked permission to get the rest of my things.

"Please! Just let me in so I can get the hell out of here!"

"Are you stupid? No! It's in my house, it's my property now! You'll just have to figure it out." She stood over me like I was a disobedient stray. As we argued, the neighborhood began to wake. After more than a decade in that house, the neighbors were used to our screaming matches. She'd get angry about…well, anything from a singular crumb to someone disagreeing with her. Most of the time, it seemed she was angry that I existed. I did my best to stay hidden and to smile and nod. It wasn't always easy, considering nothing was ever good enough for her. The smaller I made myself, the more Stockholm syndrome crept up. The more I held my own, the more physical the abuse got.

"Fine! I'll just break in then. Congratulations on pushing your only child away!" I spun around and headed back to my car empty-handed. The anger boiled inside of me. Each step violently pounded the pavement. My heart was hammering in my chest.

"Don't come crying to me when everyone else turns you away." Her shameless attempt to get the last word in cut me like a knife. My urge to burst into tears transformed into one last glance of disdain towards her. Lingering long enough to be dramatic, I got in my car and drove away.

I didn't have anywhere to go. Three months back, I gave up my two-bedroom apartment and sold everything that didn't fit in my car. My plan was to move to Manhattan. So, I downsized. I asked my mother if I could stay with her for a bit to save money.

Her large house stood tall at the top of a hill. The brick was rose pink in color with shiny white trim. Beautiful lilac bushes stood around the property. Some said we had the greenest lawn of everyone on the street. The wrap-around porch surrounded the house on both floors. Both have a view of snow-capped Rockies against the bluest sky you've ever seen. Trees and manicured homes lined either side of the street. From the upper deck, on a clear evening, was the small city of Denver in the distance. To an onlooker, one might think this home was filled with love and nice things. But to truly experience the inside was anything but.

I was in and out of my mother's house throughout my adolescence. If I wasn't running away, someone was calling social services. The first time she kicked me out was because I was too sad. Immediately after I left to sleep in my car, she turned my bedroom into her work studio. Leaving two fully furnished guest bedrooms untouched. You'd be wrong if you assumed that I was invited to stay in one of the guestrooms upon returning. I was allowed to sleep in the basement with the cobwebs on a blowup mattress. Open-concept stairs leading to the main house left me without privacy or doors. I did my best with dusty room dividers and white holiday lights to cheer the place up.

The deal was that I could stay rent-free for a while if I paid for my food and supplies. Done! The frequent errands she would send me on weren't part of the deal. At first, I was happy to help. Take Grandma to her appointment. Pick up dinner on the way home. After all, she did me a favor by letting me sleep rent-free with the cobwebs on a blowup. Time went on, and the favors got larger and longer, becoming less like favors and more like invasions of my personal space. Before long, I was reliving my teen years all over again.

She would barge into the basement while I slept, yelling about how I didn't put the trash cans on the curb the right way. And God forbid I didn't have time to run the trash cans out, or I'd come home to a bed filled with hot garbage. Her favorite place to corner me was while I was in the shower. The bathroom door didn't lock. She would burst in, letting in all the cold air, rip open the curtain, and spew her anger at me. Cold and naked, my hands covering my private areas, I'd have no choice but to wait for her tantrum to pass. She always left the curtain and door open for me to close as she muttered hateful things and stormed off. I had forgotten how much I hated living in her house.

Three months in and a lifetime of enduring her abuse, I grew resentful of the complete disregard for my humanity. Boundaries needed to be drawn. So, I did what I had never been brave enough to do before. I stood up to her. I said no, and I meant it! Naturally, she went ballistic. Telling me how ungrateful and stupid and spoiled I was. She told me to start paying an obscene amount of rent for my blowup in the basement or to get the hell out.

"You know I can't afford that! I came here to save money. You agreed to let me stay here as long as –" Of course she didn't let me finish.

"Oh, poor me. Boohoo! I don't get my way!" She mocked.

"Real mature." I snapped back.

"Real mature." Still grasping to her infantile replies. "You can't stay here anymore."

As I drove away on that dewy spring morning, something changed. An overwhelming sense of freedom overcame me. I knew then that I was on my own. No childhood bedroom at my parent's house. No safe place to go when I needed help. No support. My entire life, she told me I was stupid and not good enough. And for a long time, I believed her. She taught me that you don't have to change your behavior as long as you apologize. Turns out not all parents are right, and not all mothers nurture. Walking away from the one person who was supposed to love and protect me was the hardest thing I have ever done.