my mama

my mother was like a mama alien. I loved her with all my heart.

there was such a sorrow to it.

because for all practical purposes she died to me when she went to the hospital for the ectopic pregnancy on the day of my 5th birthday. I remember the loneliness I felt standing on the stairs going down into the basement of my friends house. They were supposed to have a birthday party for me but I don’t think they did. I don’t remember much else. Just that everything changed,

in my teens I felt the saddest, most desperate love for her.

psychotherapy changed all that in the most gross and virulent way. It made me hate her. It made me hate myself. People said I was bitter and sarcastic. I was hateful. I had lost everything.

it was a short hop skip and as jump to the insane scene across the road here in the summer of 1986 when, in a frenzy I couldn’t control, a burst of violence that came from my vital core, I unleashed 30 seconds of physical rage and frustration on her. Helplessly. I needed a mama alien who could take it. I didn’t even know I was hurting her. I wasn’t aware of my hands and feet making contact with her. I was like a little child in a big body. Saying please mama make all that not real.

I had just almost lost my life to sexual torture and nobody was even saying anything. She looked at me like she didn’t even know me. I don’t really know what was happening. After it happened I walked out into the driveway saying “it’s the end of my life! It’s the end of my life!” and I didn’t even know why I was saying it.