My Mother's Love

My most profound memory was finding her needle. I walked into the bathroom, hiding the candy wrapper I had taken from my little brother. As I moved the trash around, I saw it- a small blue tube at the bottom of the trashcan. I knew it was bad, but I didn't understand why or how. I just remember trying to justify my discovery, racking my brain for any possible explanation. At the time, I concluded that it was some sort offeminine hygiene product. After all, I was only seven. Little did I know, it would weigh on my conscience for the rest of my life. Years later when I had started watching cop shows, like "Law and Order'' and "Rizzoli and Isles", I realized what it was for. My mind spiraled as I pieced together the rest of the puzzle, realizing my step dad didn't actually go to work at all hours of the night. They were using, making, and selling drugs.

I knew something bad had happened that night in 2016 because my Aunt Tammy came over late at night. I was sitting on the teal futon in our spare bedroom, watching YouTube videos. My Aunt Tammy- her long brown hair thrown up into her usual messy bun - sat down beside me. She grabbed my hand and stroked my hair as she had done hundreds of times before -this time was different. There was tension in the air. She looked up with sorrowful eyes and sat there for a moment. I wish I could go back to that brief moment of peace before my whole world was shattered with six words: "Your mom was arrested for drugs." The room spun, my ears rang, and I couldn't breathe. My heart physically hurt. All of the air had been sucked out of the room and an elephant decided to sit on my chest. Thining back to all the signs that I missed. Was it my fault? What if I had just noticed? What if I had told someone about the needle? A new reality I couldn 't run away from, one that would haunt me for the rest of my life. One where she decided drugs were more important than her children.

Before she was arrested, we rarely saw each other. I never knew when she would show up. My grandparents were the ones who took me to everything; my mother occasionally making an appearance if I begged. This only made me more desperate for her love.

After the arrest, my step-dad was sentenced to 3 years in prison and my mom was released with the requirement of drug court. Slowly, she began to be more present in my life. I was naive. I thought it would be a happy fairytale ending.

"Your mom is a good person; she just makes bad decisions". For a long time, I truly believed that. It was a comforting thought, even after she got clean and didn't change. She was still deceptive. It was like lying is deeply embedded in her: an unbreakable habit. Still, I held onto hope that she was a good person. I was so desperate for a mother's love, I tried to force it. I tried to make her care. I still try to see her as a good person. It is impossible to admit that she does not have the emotional capacity to love anyone but herself. She loves me when it's convenient, even then, it's brief and can be snatched away at any moment. It's like being in the eye of a hurricane , trying to anticipate when the storm will return.

I have tried to love her for so long, but I am defeated. Her love isn't worth it. It's not worth the power struggle. It's not worth the ultimatum. I deserve more than conditional love. Even so, my mind is a constant battle. In one corner is the little girl, wearing rose-colored glasses, fueled by the good memories. In the other corner is the hurt teenager who doesn't understand why her mom constantly betrays her, fueled by all of the hurtful things she has said. It's a constant war of desperately wanting motherly love but continuing the vicious cycle of confusion, anger, and hope. Eventually, the longing for my mom overrides the warning signals and the cycle continues once again.

Our relationship used to be good. We were best friends: more like sisters than mother and daughter. I was her fiercest defender, justifying her actions no matter what. All of this changed as I got older. She noticed how I was everything she had once wanted to be: smart, caring, and ambitious. I was chasing the same aspirations she had once chased. Our similarities wedged us apart. My goals, dreams, and fears only reminded her of the life she could've had. Jealousy overtook her, and we slowly drifted. We can't even be in the same room without arguing. I have to walk on eggshells around the woman who I used to confide in. The constant fear of saying the wrong thing and setting her off. The only civil conversations we have is when she needs me for something. When I am no longer of use, she discards me like a dirty coffee filter.

In my mother's eyes, I am the reason she became a drug addict. I am the reason she stayed with my father for so long - the man who introduced her to meth when she was 18. The idea that her life fell apart because of me became cemented in my brain. The constant feeling of guilt eats me alive. She may not do meth anymore, but the pills are still there. She's still dependent on drugs, just different drugs - "legal" drugs this time.

I changed her life.

I see the look in her eyes when I catch her staring at me. I can almost read her thoughts: "If I had never gotten pregnant, what would my life have been?" She's told me countless times that I was an accident- a catastrophic lapse in judgment. I can assume she hates that I remember the drugs and the night they went to jail. She hates the part of me that resents her. She will never be a mother figure to me, and that eats her alive. She hates that I have everything she once wanted. I'm not a lost cause like her.

I know I'm far from perfect. I can be so fiercely loyal that I let people walk over me. Unlike my mother, I admit to myself that I can be this way. I can be a bad person; I just chose not to. I was forced to learn from her mistakes. Life is too short to push everyone away. Life is too short to blame the world for everything.

I try to imagine life in her shoes, but I can't tell her lies from the truth. I have tried for so long to see her as a victim in an unfair life, but her story never seems to add up. I try to see the girl who simply lost her way. I draw the parallels between us, trying to figure out wi1ere it aii went wrong. I'm the same age now that she was when her life started to fall apart. She's living life for the first time too, but a person can only excuse so much. When you mature, you start to realize how important it is to admit your flaws.

I still come back time and time again. Longing for my mother and the woman she once was - bossy, loving, and loud, the "mama bear" - only to have my heart shattered when she decides I'm not important enough. Mourning a woman who isn't dead, but long gone. Slowly, I've realized that it's not my fault. My mother made her own decisions long before me. I didn't put the needle in her arm or the pills in her mouth. She is the one who set her fate in stone. She pushed everyone away and betrayed them time and time again. When she has opportunities to fix it, she is too big headed to apologize.

It was never really about me.

In the midst of this endless cycle, I found myself struggling with an unexpected question: Could I ever forgive my mom for her choices? I was surrounded by a whirlwind of anger, betrayal, and confusion. I began to realize that forgiveness wasn't about changing her or waiting for a different outcome. It was about breaking free from the endless cycle, accepting the reality of who she is, and finally letting go of the false hope.

"Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results." - Albert Einstein

Acknowledgements:

I would like to acknowledge Hannah, Ryan, Darrin, Kay, Landen, Anaya, and all of my other classmates who helped me throughout the writing process. The other English 110 class also deserves lots of thanks for providing an alternative perspective. Keith Kroll was a high part in the entire writing process. If it wasn't for l1im, I never would have written this piece. Most importantly, I would like to thank my best friends, Addy and Dart, and my boyfriend, Nate. They were my lifeline during this process. They have seen this memoir from the very beginning all the way through the end. Thanks to my cat, Dexter, for always interrupting and stomping all over my keyboard. Finally, I would like to thank my mother. If it wasn't for her, I wouldn't be the ambitious, independent woman I am today.

Bio:

Abigail Kopec is a hig!1 schoo! senior who dual-enrolls at Kalamazoo Valley Community College. She hopes to get a degree in social work and international studies.